


grace of the fire and the flames

by shesmyplusone



Series: a light from the shadow shall spring [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cousin Incest, Explicit Language, F/M, POV Multiple, Political Jon Snow, Post 8.01 AU, R Plus L Equals J, Romantic Jonsa, Slow Burn, Some Book Verse incorporated, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2020-06-02 12:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesmyplusone/pseuds/shesmyplusone
Summary: Sitting in the crypts, amongst the dead Starks, Jon makes a different decision, and tells the Starks his secret first. The world shifts, and the very existence of magic hangs in the balance.(Post 8.01 canon divergence)





	1. Jon Snow I

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my Very Self-Indulgent Season 8 AU. One where the magic of the story isn't forgotten, and neither are the politics.

After Sam had left the crypts, Jon had slumped down in front of his _mother’s_ statue, feeling too overwhelmed to walk back into the rest of the castle. Right now, he belonged here, amongst the other dead Starks, where his mistakes could no longer hurt those he loved.

Sam’s words echoed in his mind, son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen... _true heir to the seven kingdoms_. It was too much. He felt himself slip back into the hole he’d been after he’d come back to life before Sansa had ridden through the gates of Castle Black. His entire life he’d been a bastard, a traitor, an oathbreaker..and now he was expected to sit on the Iron Throne? To defeat the White Walkers, to help his family survive Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, to keep them all safe... It was too much.

Jon thought longingly to the original plan he’d presented to Sansa, to go South, and just live. No responsibilities, no pressure. But she hadn’t wanted to give up on the living, he thought. She wasn’t ready to go down without a fight.

Jon wasn’t sure how many more fights he could take.

He shut his eyes and thought of Ned Stark. He had lied, for over a decade, about his honor, just to protect Jon and to honor his promise to his sister. It almost eerily echoed Jon’s actions in the South, his decision to give himself to the Dragon Queen, to protect his family and honor his own promise to Sansa.

Jon thought of all the people Ned Stark had hurt with this promise, from Jon himself, to Lady Catelyn, to the other Starks. The Honorable Ned Stark had kept his promise, but at what cost? Didn’t he have a duty to his living family members, just as much to those who had passed?

Jon thought of Bran, silent and looking up at Jon with a calm he never possessed as a child, of Arya, sneaking upon him in the Godswood, looking more like a Stark every day, and of Sansa, fierce and passionate, setting his heart racing in her solar in ways he’d never admit.

How could he lie to them, keep them out of his plans? He could not act as a lone wolf, not now when he needed them the most. Jon thought of his mother, who, according to Sam, had left Winterfell of her own free will, to go with his father. But in the end, her brothers had fought a war to get her back where she belonged. Jon couldn’t imagine it had been easy for her when her actions had gotten her father and brother killed, and had put a price on Ned’s head. She may have left willingly, but Jon thought she’d want to come back home, in the end, to be with her pack.

Jon could not find it in him to stay away from his pack, even now, knowing he only half belonged.

His other half though...he thought of riding Rhaegal, the dragon named for his father, a man he only thought of as a villain in his family’s history. For better or for worse, that man was a part of him, of his story. Jon didn’t know how to come to terms with that, that his birth father was a man best known for abandoning his wife for a younger woman, as well as a man who Jon now knew abandoned his children for a babe who he named after his first son. It felt as if his life was the result of the suffering of others, of his two half-siblings he’d never get to meet.

That felt less important though than the one Targaryen he had met. He thought of Daenerys beaming up at him, her hair matching the snow behind her. Jon felt guilt rise in his chest at his actions towards the woman he now knew as his aunt. He had manipulated her after he had realized she would never commit her forces to his cause, not without an emotional attachment.

And he had laid with her. Jon knew he should have had a worse reaction to his very Targaryen actions, but he knew that the feelings he had been hiding for Sansa were worse than what he had done with Daenerys. He had felt nothing, not even the hint of attraction for her, despite her beauty.

He had only felt his duty.

It had felt different than when he had laid with Ygritte. With her, he had been trying to manipulate her, to stay alive amongst the Wildings, but it had been more than that. He had still been attracted to Ygritte, had desired her, even after knowing their differences may have been too great to keep them together for an extended amount of time. But he still remembered how he had loved her.

Jon sighed deeply. He could hear Sansa’s question about loving Daenerys hanging in the air, the question he had avoided by simply retreating from the warmth of Sansa’s room, and heading headfirst towards a painful truth.

What was he to do now? He could simply tell no one, keep this truth to himself as Ned Stark had before him. Or he could go to Daenerys, convince her he wanted nothing for that throne if only to keep the other Starks safe. He thought of Daenerys’s sharp “Whatever they want” directed towards Sansa, of her threats to Sansa before their dragon ride. Could that work? Jon wondered.

Or he could tell Sansa and Arya.

This was the most tempting. Together, they would be able to plan, to protect themselves, as well as the North. Between the three of them, he thought, they would be able to come up with a plan, a scheme, to keep them all safe. He thought back to Littlefinger’s absence at the Great Hall. Where was he? He had forgotten to ask Sansa in the heat of the moment, but he doubted his absence was anything good. He’d have to bring that up, he thought, as his eyes slid shut and he found himself in an uneasy sleep.

His dreams started with echoes of his childhood nightmare, of being lost in the Crypts, the Old Kings of Winter shouting at him, telling him he did not belong. He found himself rushing through the crypts, being chased by the Starks of times past. His breath was heavy, and the cold air of the crypts hurt his lungs. He pushed past the stairs, and found himself not in the courtyard of Winterfell, but instead, within Castle Black.

There was a battle raging around him, and he watched his brothers of the Nightwatch die as he ran through the yards. There was the Old Bear, fierce and tall, Grenn, the goofy grin still on his face, and Pyp, small and fast, all darting through the fighting.

He saw Uncle Benjen, smiling at him from atop a dead horse, and Ned Stark, standing headless, his head in his arms, a small smile on his lips. “I promise,” he said, and Jon rushed away in horror.

He found himself on the other side of the yard, wildlings and brothers still at war around him. He also saw Robb, shouting at him, “You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re a bastard!” in the voice of a child. Jon continued running, darting by Lady Catelyn, scowling at him, and Alister Thorn, whose hoarse “Lord Snow!” echoed in his ears.

Jon came to stop, breathing hard, and glanced down to see Ygritte’s body facedown, her hair spread wide. He fell to his knees in front of her, rolling her body so he could see her face.

She was still alive. Jon stroked the blood and dirt from her face, and watched her whisper, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” Before he could reply, her face transformed into Sansa’s, her lips whispering, “Did you bend the knee for the North, or because you love her?”

Jon tried to reply, to find the words he couldn’t find in her solar, but then she transformed into Lyanna Stark, dying on her birthing bed. She peered up to him, and whispered, “His name is Aegon Targaryen. Promise me you’ll protect him, Ned. Promise me.”

Jon found himself lost for words when he heard a howl behind him. He looked behind him, seeing Ghost, flanked by one large grey wolf, and one small one, almost the size of a pup. It must be Nymeria and... Lady. She wagged her tail at the sight of him. He reached out to pet her, but the three of them darted away, out of his reach.

He looked back towards his mother and saw the ground empty. Jon tried to ignore the ache in his heart, and stood tall.

He glanced up and saw a shadow hanging overhead, a massive mockingbird flying above the castle, high above the Wall. Jon heard a scream, and saw the bird head right for Sansa, as she had looked when they had first reunited, grey cloak looking ragged, with dirt on her face.

Jon tried to shout for her, but his voice was lost in the screams of the bird. He tried to run towards her, but he found his feet caught in the mud underneath him. He glanced up again and watched as the mockingbird became a dragon, soaring down and swallowing Sansa in one bite.

He screamed, feeling tears fall down his face, and jolted awake at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. Arya knelt next to him, her eyes full of concern. “Are you alright? You were shaking in your sleep.”

Jon blinked, trying to readjust his eyes to the darkness. “I had a nightmare.”

Arya moved to sit next to him, under the statue of his mother. “In the crypts?”

Jon wiped the remaining tears from his cheeks. “It’s a long story.”

Arya motioned around them. “And it’s still the middle of the night. We have nothing but time to burn.”

Jon chuckled and rubbed his chin. He knew this was his chance. And even with the horror of his dream echoing in his memory, with Sansa eaten by the dragon, he kept going back to his desperate reach for the direwolves. He may not ever be a true Stark, but that would never stop him from trying, from reaching for the wolves, even if they remained just out of reach.

“I came down last night to meet with Sam,” he began, but Arya interrupted him before he could continue.

  
“Your Night’s Watch brother?” she asked, curiously.

Jon nodded. “Aye, he was my closest brother. And I sent him away to become a Maester.” He thought back to those dark weeks after Sam had left. Sending Sam away may have been the only thing that kept him alive during the mutiny, he thought darkly.

“While he was in Oldtown, he discovered something about me. About my true parents,” he choked out, trying to find the words to verbalize the truth he was burdened with.

Arya looked at him quietly, waiting.

Jon took a deep breath and rushed out, “My true father is Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna Stark is my mother. Or, she was, anyway. Fat- Ned Stark lied, to honor a promise he made her,” he added, feeling that ache in his heart again.

“How does he know?” Arya hissed. Jon looked at her, her face looked almost emotionless, her eyes empty. He thought of all the things she had gone through, stories he hadn’t yet heard.

“He found reports of a marriage between the two of them, and a birth announcement for me. Aegon Targaryen,” he admitted bitterly.

“Jon,” Arya corrected him, her face fierce. “You’re still Jon. You’re still my brother, you’ll always be my brother.” She reached out and hugged him, burying her face in his furs.

Jon squeezed back, relishing the feeling of her in his arms. He had missed her so much.

“Does anyone else know?” Arya asked into his shoulder.

“Bran knows,” Jon replied. “I don’t know how,” he added, thinking of his quiet younger brother.

“It’s his greensight, I bet,” Arya explained, pulling back from him. She kept her hands on his shoulders. “He calls himself the Three-Eyed Raven now, and he says he can see into the past using the trees.” She went quiet for a moment. “That’s how we killed Littlefinger.”

“What!” Jon exclaimed. “He’s dead? None of you said anything!”

Arya swallowed, looking almost nervous in the candlelight. “Sansa didn’t want it getting out yet. He was trying to pit me and Sansa against each other. He left a scroll she wrote to Robb before Father was executed for me to find, and he was whispering in her ear about how I wanted to kill her.” She paused for a moment. “And at the beginning, we almost fell for his trap.”

Jon, thinking back to their conversation under the Heart Tree, asked, “But you’re alright now?”

Arya nodded. “I was upset when I came home and it was her instead of you. I know I shouldn’t have been,” she cut him off before he could protest, “But I was, alright? But we worked through it.”

She went quiet for a moment, and said, “She is the smartest person I’ve ever met. She figured out how to out-think Littlefinger, how to keep tricking him until the last moment. She got him to think she was going to execute me, but we had a trial for him instead, accusing him of treason against Father.”  
“What?” Jon asked. “Back before the war?”

“Yes. He claimed he was going to help father stop the Lannisters, but he betrayed them, too. And he also tricked our Aunt Lysa into killing Jon Arryn, which started this entire mess,” Arya explained.

Jon thought back to his only conversation with Littlefinger. “He told me he loved your mother,” he began. “Do you think that’s why he did that? So he could have her?”

Arya shrugged. “Maybe. He clearly transferred that obsession onto Sansa though.” Arya shivered, and added, “He kept going on and on about how he loved her before she told me to slit his throat.”

Jon scowled, “He told me, too.” He thought back to his burning anger, at the idea of that man, the man who had sold her to the Boltons, touching her again.

They sat in silence for a few moments, Jon stewing in his anger, until Arya spoke again. “Are you going to tell Sansa, too?”

“Of course,” Jon said. “I know she’s going to want to do something about it.”

Arya hummed under her breath. “She won’t make you be king of the whole seven kingdoms, don’t worry. She wants you here, not down South.”

Jon said nothing, but his heart lit at the confirmation that Sansa wants him in Winterfell.

“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” he decided. “Or today, I suppose. After I get some rest.”

“Maybe try a bed this time?” Arya teased him. Jon chuckled softly as they both moved to stand up.

They stood looking at each other until Jon reached out and hugged her again. “Thank you,” he whispered in her hair. “Thank you for always being on my side.”

Arya squeezed him again. “Always, big brother.”


	2. Arya Stark I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the morning comes to Winterfell, a number of new problems arrive as well. The Starks begin to plot.

The next morning Arya found herself standing on the ramparts, watching the castle slowly wake up. She’d managed a few hours of sleep, all within her wolf dreams. After they’d faded away, it was harder for her to sleep, leaving her wandering the castle at the break of dawn. 

With the peak of Winter upon Winterfell, the sun would not rise until near midday, and would only remain in the sky for a few hours. The majority of the training and sparring had to take place during those hours, but a number of knights and warriors were already awake, putting in their practice time. 

Arya knew she should join them, but instead found herself lost in thought. In her wolf dreams, Nymeria and her pack had been moving through what looked like a bog, hunting frogs and lizards. It had looked like what Arya remembered of the Neck, and this left a hint of hope in her heart that she may finally be coming home. 

Arya didn’t want that hope. Hope normally meant disappointment in the end. But she thought of how she’d come home, how they’d all come home in the end. 

Maybe it was the time for hope, she decided. Arya thought back to Jon’s secret. It was dangerous, she knew, but he was still just Jon, secret Dragon blood or not. But they would need to find a way to protect him.

Jon had gone South to keep them safe, and now it was their turn to return the favor. Arya knew Sansa would find some way to address the political situation, but she would need to keep Jon safe physically. 

She thought of her Needle, her new Valyrian dagger, the faces she had hidden in the Broken Tower. 

She knew where she needed to go. 

Arya turned down the ramparts and walked down the ice-covered stairs. The castle was beginning to wake up, with servants rushing through the yard, and the stable boys attempting to feed all of the horses. Arya passed the knights and slid into the hot forge. Even at the hour, men were working on the Dragonglass weapons, preparing them for the battles ahead. 

Arya saw Gendry ordering some of the other men around, still looking half asleep. She snuck up behind him and asked, “Too early for you?” 

Gendry jumped, but to his credit, he didn’t cry out. “Aye. It’s still too dark and cold here.” 

Arya snorted. “This isn’t even that cold, Southerner.”

Gendry raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “Did you need something, my Lady, or are you just here to insult me?” 

“Don’t call me that,” Arya snapped. This was one part of their relationship she didn’t miss. 

“What, a lady? For worse or better, that’s what you are,” Gendry walked towards one of the fires, reaching for an iron. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugged. “You always act like I’m trying to insult you when I call you a lady. That’s not it. It’s just what you are, your place in the world. You get to decide what you want to do with it. That’s more than I’d get, as a bastard from Flea Bottom.” 

Arya froze. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She’d always been convinced that being a lady meant she had to dress like one, speak softly, sew neatly, sing sweetly. But maybe it was more than that. She thought of the Lady her mother had been, fierce and strong, of Lady Brienne, swinging her sword and pushing the Hound down that mountain. She even thought of Sansa, the woman she was now, tall and unmoveable. 

Maybe being a Lady could be less restrictive than she’d imagine. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. Gendry looked back at her, his eyes softer than she’d ever seen them. They made her heart feel as if someone was squeezing it tightly. 

“It’s alright. I know you wouldn’t think about it like that.” 

“Maybe I should.” She thought about Jon’s words, long ago, about bastards getting the arms but not the name, and girls getting the name but not the arms. 

“You will now,” Gendry said, smiling slighting. “Now, what do you need, my Lady?” 

Arya smiled as well. “I have a weapon or two in mind for you.”

“As you wish, my Lady.” 

She pulled out the Valyrian dagger Bran had gifted her, the one she’d killed Littlefinger with. “Could you make three more of these? But out of dragonsteel, not Valyrian steel.”

Gendry took the dagger from her. “Aye, I should be able. If you want exact copies, I’ll need to keep it for a while.”

“That’s fine,” Arya said. “I still have my Needle.” 

Gendry glanced down at her hip. “I can’t believe you still have that sword, after all this time.”

“I would never leave it behind.” She thought back to Braavos, of hiding the sword amongst the docks. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you how it saved my life.” 

Gendry smiled at her again. “I’d like that.”

Arya realized she would, too. 

Gendry had assured her he’d try to get to her weapons as soon as he had the time. Arya left him in the forge and headed to the kitchen to sneak a roll before heading to train. 

But as she was leaving the warm and busy kitchen, she heard a voice calling her name. “Arya!” 

She glanced down the hallway and saw Sansa sticking her head out of a doorway. She sped up to meet her sister. 

The room she was in was small, but Arya was surprised at how many people were stuffed within the walls. Sansa was standing next to the doorway, her hair braided over her armor dress. Brienne was next to her, looking anxious as if she hadn’t slept at all. Podrick was on her other side, half-awake, hovering in front of the small fire. Bran was on the other side of the doorway, looking as serene as ever, but it was the figure on his other side, sat in front of the window, that made Arya gasp.

It was Jaime Lannister, or at least a man that looked like a ghost of the golden lion Arya remembered from her childhood. 

His hair was much darker, his eyes shrunken, and he looked worn from traveling. He looked up at Arya, and said, “Oh, wonderful, another Stark.” 

Arya barred her teeth as she walked into the room, feeling Nymeria just on the edge of her consciousness. “What’s he doing here?”

Sansa shut the door behind her. “He’s here to help.” 

Arya snorted. “And you believe him?” 

Sansa glanced at her, and replied, “What do you think?” 

“I am sitting right here,” Lannister muttered, but Brienne gave him a dark look and he went quiet.

Sansa turned to look at him, and asked, “So Cersei’s forces are not coming?”

He nodded. “She never intended on honoring the truce with the Targaryen girl, even after seeing the monster your brother brought to King’s Landing.” He paused for a moment. “I came in her steed.” 

“Alone? Did you truly think you could make a difference as just one man?” Arya interjected, eyes narrowed. 

“I came alone right now, yes, but I have an army coming,” Lannister retorted. 

“The Lannister army?” Sansa asked, lips tightening. 

“Not just the Lannisters,” he replied. “I convinced your Uncle to send the remaining Tully forces North, as well.”

A hint of surprise crossed Sansa’s face as she exchanged a look with Arya. “After all that time you spent trying to take Riverrun, he’d listen to you?” 

Lannister snorted. “Rather me than my sister. Tully was organizing his forces when I left Riverrun and will lead them and the remaining Lannisters North, to defend his nieces and nephew.”

“He’s never even met us,” Arya said flatly. “What does he really want?” 

“Protection,” Sansa suggested. “Whether against the Lannisters or the Dragon Queen, is the real question.” 

“He knows your brother bent the knee,” Lannister said. “He seemed to have no loyalty towards him, either.”

Arya glanced at Sansa. Could Edmure Tully be coming North to try to crown one of them, or even Bran, and try to reclaim the kingdom Robb had started carving out of the North and the Riverlands? Arya internally groaned. The last thing they needed was another player in this complicated game. 

“Either way,” Sansa said, starting to pace the small room. “We’ll have to tell the Dragon Queen you’re here, and she’ll want your head, Kingslayer.”

“Unless you speak for me, Lady Stark.”

“Why would she do that?” Arya asked, trying to reign in her temper.

Before the Kingslayer could reply, Bran said, “Because we’ll need him to win this war.” 

Arya turned to her brother. “The war against the Dead, or against the Lannister and Targaryen forces?”

“Both. Either. They’re the same war,” Bran said, still emotionless. “The war for the living must fight the forces of ice, and of fire.” 

Arya thought of the dragons, flying high over Winterfell. She could imagine fighting the fire would be just as difficult as fighting the ice, in the end. 

“I’ll speak for him, Bran, if you think we need him,” Sansa said, pursing her lips. “I’m not sure if she’ll listen to me, though. I could ask Jon, but he might not listen to me either.”

“You’d be surprised,” Arya muttered, thinking of Jon’s confession down in the crypts. 

“I’ll bring the Kingslayer up when we meet with the Lords and the Queen in a few hours,” Sansa decided. “We’ll see what happens then. Between me, and Tyrion, I doubt you’ll die.” 

“I don’t find that all that reassuring,” Lannister muttered. 

Sansa ignored him and turned to Brienne. “Will you stay here and guard the door until then? I have a few Lords I need to meet with before the meeting.” 

Brienne nodded. “Aye, my lady.”

Sansa turned to Arya. “And I assume you’ll be in the training yard?” 

Before she could answer, Bran said, “I would like you to join me in the Godswood for a time, Arya.” 

Arya nodded. “Of course, Bran. But Sansa,” she said, looking her sister in the eyes, “you need to talk to Jon. He needs to tell you something.”

Sansa nodded, her cheeks pinking slightly. “If I find the time, I’ll seek him out.”

“Good,” Arya replied, walking to push Bran from the room. “See you later, then.” 

Sansa smiled slightly at them both as they headed into the busy hallway. 

Despite the early hour, there were people rushing in every direction, soldiers heading to the yard, maids rushing into upper rooms with fresh furs, and lords and ladies awake to continue planning for the war ahead.

Arya guided Bran through the crowd of people but was unable to speak to him until they left the castle and entered the yard. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked, dodging an icy puddle. 

“Wait until we get to the Godswood,” Bran replied, as emotionless as ever.

Arya’s heart ached. She missed her little brother, his affectionate laughter. He was here, but the boy she remembered, the one she’d raced across the castle yards, was gone. Was she this different, too? Did she seem this distant to Sansa and Jon?

She bit her lip as she pushed Bran through the gate to the Godswood. Arya didn’t want to seem distant anymore. Now that all of them were home, it was harder to be anyone but Arya Stark.

She found that’s all she wanted to be. 

At this early hour, there wasn’t anyone else at the Heart Tree, which was no doubt why Bran wanted to come down. When he was there, others were less likely to join him, Arya had realized, giving him privacy to use his greensight. 

She rolled him to the tree and positioned him so they’d be able to face each other. She sat against the roots of the tree, as she’d seen her father do dozens of times before. She still missed him and being home only made it worse. 

The snow felt damp against her cloak, and she pulled her legs up against her chest. Despite the bare trees around the Godswood, the heart tree’s red leaves still remained, a stark difference from the white and gray all around them. The pond was frozen in front of them, and noises of the castle seemed distant, making it seem as if she and Bran were the only two people in the world. Arya felt, for a moment, as if she was in one of Sansa’s songs, one where the snow was a good sign, instead of the harbinger of the White Walkers. One where they might actually win the upcoming war and House Stark might thrive again.

Arya looked up at Bran. He’d grown up to have more of a Stark look than he’d had in his childhood, with a long face like her father. His hair was still dark red, and his Tully blue eyes looked as distant as ever. 

Arya knew she’d have to work to bridge that distance. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Bran met her eyes. “Several things. First, you had a wolf dream last night, did you not?” 

Arya nodded. She had gotten used to Bran knowing what he shouldn’t, and it saved time to just accept it. “Yes. Nymeria and her pack were crossing a bog. In the Neck, I think.” 

“Yes, they’re on their way,” Bran replied. “She knows what’s about to happen, and she wants to help. She won’t be here until after the War begins, however.” 

“At least she’s coming,” Arya whispered, trying to control the hope in her heart. 

“Yes, she’s necessary for what’s to come.” Bran swallowed, almost looking nervous for a moment. “Jon told you about his parents.” 

“Yes,” Arya said, her heart racing again. “How long have you known? Why didn’t you tell me or Sansa?”

Bran shook his head. “It had to come from him. He had to make a decision, one that will affect the end of the war.” 

“What do you mean?” Arya understood that Jon’s birth was important, but how would it change what was to come?

“How Jon reacts to the secret will not only impact him, but also the independence of the North, and the remaining six kingdoms.” Bran shut his eyes. “I think it will even impact the future of magic.” 

“Magic?” Arya was confused. “Do you mean your greensight, or something else?”

“My greensight, your wolf dreams, the dragons, the white walkers, the fire magic used by the cult of R’hllor. All stem from different types of magic, and all could be impacted by the choices we make, here and now.” Bran had his eyes clenched shut as if trying to keep something out. 

“So, no small impact, then,” Arya said weakly.

“No,” Bran said. “Not at all.” He opened his eyes again, and the moment of emotion in his face had passed. “You need to support him, and Sansa, no matter their decisions in what’s to come.” 

“What do you mean?” Arya asked again, feeling lost. Why would Bran think she wouldn’t support them?

“They might make a choice you have difficulty understanding. But remember, you’re still Jon’s favorite sister.” 

Arya opened her mouth to reply, but Bran’s eyes went completely white before she could. She huffed. “Of course, Bran, just say something like that and then run away!” 

Arya rolled her eyes and sat back against the tree, trying to hide her smile. Maybe there was still something left of her baby brother, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for such a great reaction to the first chapter! I've never posted a full story before, and having such a positive reaction really boosted my confidence about the story. Next chapter we'll finally get some Jon and Sansa.


	3. Sansa Stark I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is confronted with a face from the past. She and Jon finally have an honest conversation. The Starks look to the future.

After leaving Brienne and Podrick with their new visitor, Sansa rushed to meet the Northern Lords and Ladies for a breakfast meeting. She wouldn’t have time to rebraid her hair, she thought as she absentmindedly ran her hands through the ends of her hair. Brienne had rushed her from her room to let her know Jaime Lannister had arrived. At least she looked awake and refreshed, if not as neat as she’d like. Before seeing the Dragon Queen again, she’d need to rebraid it, she thought, pushing through the crowd in the hallway. 

She still had to maintain her curtsies, even with a woman who was trying to conquer her home.

Sansa pushed past a pair of guards and entered her solar. The lords and ladies of the North were seated around a large table, bearing a map of the North. Sansa caught sight of Lord Cerwyn, his young face anxious, Lord Manderly, tucking into his meal, and Lady Lyanna Mormont, already looking stern. 

There was no sign of Jon. She’d left a note with the guard at his door, who had told her he’d gone to bed late. Sansa had very actively attempted to not think about where he might have been otherwise and had tried even more to ignore why that was bothering her so much.

“Good Morning,” Sansa called, as she moved through the crowd to her seat. She nodded as each lord and lady greeted her in return. She reached for a roll and ate in silence, trying to decide how to begin the meeting. She needed to reassure the Lords that Jon was still on their side, fighting for the North. If they broke rank now, before the Dead were defeated, they would all be in trouble. She wasn’t going to tell them about the Kingslayer or even the Tully forces until she found some time to talk to Jon. 

She hoped she could manage to make it less emotional than their last conversation. Sansa tried to keep her cheeks from reddening, as she thought back to last night. In the midst of their argument, he had stepped towards her, and her heart had raced in a way she thought she’d lost long ago. 

But he was her brother, she reminded herself. Had what she had gone through really affected her in such a way that she could only be attracted to her brother? Half-brother, Littlefinger whispered in her memory. Sansa thought back to their quiet moments in Castle Black, to their conversations on the road as they planned to take their home back. There was no surprise she felt the way she did. Jon had been the first man, if not the first person, who had looked at her and not seen a pawn, or an oath owed to someone else, in a very long time. He had seen Sansa, not the little bird, not Lady Lannister, not the key to the North. 

There was no wonder why she loved him so. 

Before she could continue her thoughts, the door opened, and Jon, as if summoned by the feelings echoing in her heart, stepped through. He looked tired and was rubbing his neck as he walked through the door. He was back in his Stark gorget, however, and had his fur slung over his shoulders.

It was like he’d never left. 

“Good morning,” he said to the lords and ladies, and walked to take his place next to her, at the head of the table. Sansa forced her heart to calm down, to focus on what needed to be done this morning.

Jon offered her a small smile as he sat down. Up close, he looked even more exhausted, which suggested he hadn’t spent the night with the queen, as Sansa had first suspected. He must have spent them with his demons, instead. Sansa thought back to Arya’s words. She’d have to find time to talk to him, she decided. Sooner rather than later. 

They needed to trust each other, but trust could only come from communication. 

Sansa smiled back, knowing they’d need to be a united front for this conversation, in order to convince the lords and ladies the future of the North was still in their hands. 

She looked back at the crowd, who was looking at her expectantly. It was time to begin.

Sansa cleared her throat, and began to speak. “Good morning, again, to you all. I’m pleased you could all meet us here.”

Jon added, “We’re very grateful.” Sansa glanced at him and gave him a small smile. Maybe he was learning to play the game. 

“We’ve had discussions of our own, Lady Stark,” Lord Manderly stated, his normally jolly face looking much more serious. “We’ve considered what Lord Snow said yesterday with our meeting with the Queen. We’re not happy about it, but hope all can be reassessed after the war.” 

Jon seemed to perk up at this statement. “Lord Manderly, trust me when I say I agree completely. The war with the dead is the most pressing issue at the moment. I did not want to bend the knee. But it was the only action that would appeal to Queen Daenerys.” 

“Besides laying with her?” Lord Cerwyn called, sounding annoyed. “My father died at the Twins after Robb laid with a foreign woman! Why should we follow you when you acted the same as he did?”

Sansa saw Jon’s face paled. Whatever he had been prepared for, it was not this. He seemed somehow determined to not meet her eyes, so she decided to respond. 

“Lord Cerwyn, you know as well as I that the dead and the Targaryen dragons represent very different threats than the Lannisters,” Sansa said sharply, causing the lords and ladies to look to her. “Jon had to manage the Dragon Queen in the best way he knew fit. She’s here now, with her dragons and her armies. Which means we must manage her even more carefully than before.” 

At this Jon did look at her, eyes full of gratitude. Sansa didn’t agree with his actions, was even hurt by them, but she would not allow Jon to be attacked. He was a Stark, a direwolf in their pack. And Sansa now had the power to keep their pack safe in ways she could have only dreamed of as a child. There was no way she could let harsh words against Jon stand uncontested.

“He gave away your home, your birthright! How could you agree with him?” Lord Cerwyn seemed determined to bring up every argument that cut her deep. It was as if Littlefinger had gotten to him. Maybe before his death, he had, she realized, thinking back to Baelish sneaking around the castle.

“My Lord, you know as well as I that it was you all who appointed Jon your King. I am simply supporting your own choice. And forgive me, Jon gave away the North, not Winterfell. While we are still within its walls, I am still Lady of the castle. And I will not let you intimidate my family.”

Silence greeted her words, until Lady Lyanna spoke up. “I agree with Lady Stark. We should stand with Jon Snow, king or not.” 

Sansa had expected nothing less, but it was still a relief to hear Lyanna voice her agreement. To her surprise, Jon stood at this point, and all attention went back to him. “I am relieved to have your support, my Lords. I also would like you to know that I do have a plan for the North going forward, but I must discuss it with Lady Stark further before we inform you all. I do hope to see you all at the planning meeting this afternoon.” 

Sansa froze. This was the first she’d heard of a plan. They should have had a more productive meeting last night, instead of allowing their feelings to get in the way. 

At Jon’s words, the lords and ladies of the North rose and began to file out of Sansa’s solar. She turned to speak to Jon, and found him already looking at her. His cheeks were rosy from the heat of the fire, and he seemed rejuvenated, as if the discussion had destroyed whatever demons he had been battling with. 

“We need to speak,” he said, his eyes following the lords and ladies as they left. 

“Arya told me we needed to speak,” Sansa replied while taking him in. She couldn’t seem to get enough of looking at him. It had been the same since she’d seen him ride through the gates, Dragon Queen at his back. 

“Was that all she told you?” Jon asked, too quickly to seem casual. 

“Yes,” Sansa said, wondering what could be so pressing. “Do you want to speak now, or later?” 

“Later,” Jon said, standing. “I need to speak with Sam, right now. Do you know where he’d be?” 

“Yes,” Sansa replied. “He’s normally in the library this early, still looking for ways to defeat the Others.”

“Thank you,” Jon said, smiling down at her. “How about we meet in the Broken Tower, in about an hour?” 

“I’ll see you there,” Sansa said, pushing her chair back as well. Jon gave her another small smile before he turned and left the room. 

Sansa stood and turned to look out her window to the Castle yards below. She didn’t know what Jon would need to tell her, but from what he said in the meeting, it seemed silly to try to plan before she could take what he said into account. She tried to think about what she could do to pass the time. She knew many of the ladies of the Castle had started a sewing circle, sewing and knitting to prepare for the Winter to come, but if she joined them, she feared she’d lose track of time and miss Jon all together. 

Instead, she headed to the Maester’s Tower, to discuss their plans for the injured during the war. The hallways of the castle were busy, people rushing in every direction. She even saw a number of children sneaking through the crowds, leaving her to wonder if Varys had brought his little birds north with him. 

Before she could turn up the tower, she heard a raspy voice calling, “Lady Sansa!” 

She turned and saw Podrick behind her, out of breath. “Podrick, are you alright?” 

He nodded, catching his breath. 

“Is something wrong with our guest?” she asked, already jumping to the worst conclusion. 

He shook his head. “There’s someone here to see you, my Lady. In the Great Hall.” 

She sighed. The Maester would have to wait. “Thank you Podrick. Please go back to keep Brienne company, would you?” she asked, already heading down the hallway.

“Of course, my Lady,” Podrick called from behind her.

Was it the Tullys, here already? She pondered as she walked down the stairs. Or someone else? There was so much to do before the war began, and someone’s concern could have slipped her mind.

Sansa walked into the great hall, and saw a number of men crowded about the fire. She gasped as she recognized the one at the front. 

It was Theon. 

She froze as their eyes met. “Lady Sansa,” he said, bowing slightly. He looked much better than he had when they had seen each other last, both frozen and abused. He almost looked as Sansa remembered him in their youth, but with less of the confident, brash exterior he was known for. But he was here, breathing. 

“Theon,” she whispered back. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa,” he said, looking nervous. “If you’ll have me.” 

Sansa did not wait, but took two steps and rushed into his arms. They clung tightly to each other. “Of course, Theon,” she whispered. “It’s your home too.” 

She pulled back and called for food to be brought into the hall. Theon told her of his sister, of saving her from their uncle. But it wasn’t enough. “I won’t feel truly at peace until you’re all safe, too,” he said, in between bites of meat and potatoes. 

She smiled at him. Just having him back, sitting with him, filled a hole in heart she forgot was there. “I’ll let Jon and the others know, just so you don’t have any unexpected surprises.” 

“Jon and I already had it out, no worries,” Theon said. “He only spared me because of you, so thanks for that,” he said, trying to stay lighthearted, even as Sansa could see the pain in his eyes. 

“But you’re alright now?” she asked, wondering how she could bridge the subject with Jon. He and Theon had never gotten on, worse on their best days than Sansa and Arya on their worst. Sansa didn’t know how Robb had handled the two of them back in their childhood, back when she was too invested in her own dramatic relationships to think about her brothers.

“We are,” Theon replied, his lips curling up. “He told me I could be a Greyjoy and Stark, and I intend to honor that.” 

Sansa smiled, relieved that even Jon and Theon could be on the same page. “I’ll send for some servants to find you rooms. We’re a bit cramped now, with the Dragon Queen, but we’ll find you someplace warm.”

She stood, and added, “I have a meeting to go to, but I’ll try to see you later, alright?”

Theon smiled in response, already with his mouth full again. 

Sansa left the hall, and headed for the Broken Tower. The sun had finally risen, and was peeking out behind a number of clouds. It would no doubt snow again in a few hours, but the knights and warriors- Arya amongst them- were taking advantage of the light. Sansa saw Wildlings and Unsullied, Northerners and Dothraki, all training together. Hopefully, the peace would stand, at least until the real battles began, Sansa thought, dodging an icy puddle. 

She approached the broken tower, thinking of the last time she was within its walls, as Stannis Baratheon tried to take Winterfell from the Boltons. She wondered where they’d be now if he had succeeded. 

There were more stairs than Sansa had remembered, but she used the climb to steel herself. She couldn’t let her feelings get the better of her again. They needed to work together, and hopefully whatever Jon had to say could help them keep their family safe. 

As she reached the top step, she saw Jon slumped in a chair in the corner, half asleep. He must have had a rough night if he was drifting off in the cold, damp air of the Broken Tower. Even just being here made Sansa shiver. Bran had almost died here. It was hard to not feel uneasy. 

“Jon?” she called as she approached. He jerked awake, blinking up at her. 

“Sorry, Sansa. I’ve been here a while,” he said, motioning to the chair beside him.

Sansa moved to sit down, feeling guilty. “I’m sorry if I’m late. Theon and a number of other Greyjoy men arrived, and I was trying to get them comfortable.”

Jon sat up. “Theon’s here?” 

Sansa nodded. “Yes. He saved his sister from his uncle, and then decided he needed to come fight for Winterfell. He said someone pretty wise told him he was a Greyjoy and a Stark, and he decided to honor that,” she said, teasing him slightly. 

To her surprise, Jon teared up. “Jon?” she asked, reaching for him. She found herself wrapping her arms around him, and could feel wet tears on her shoulder. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently. Whatever it could have been, it was more serious than she could have imagined.

“I need to tell you something,” he whispered. 

“What is it?” 

She could feel him swallow against her shoulder. “Sam told me something last night after we talked in your solar. Something that changes everything.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it, together. All of us, as a family,” she whispered. She thought of Arya’s urgency when telling them to talk. This was big, something that was hurting Jon. The least she could do was to support him through it. 

“That’s just it,” Jon said, pulling back from her. His eyes were red. “We’re not family, not anymore. I’m not your brother.” 

“What?” Sansa whispered, her heart racing. “Jon, of course we’re family! You’re a Stark, you’ll always be a Stark. No matter what Sam told you.” 

His eyes shut. “I’m the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. The trueborn son, apparently.” Jon laughed bitterly. “I’m the heir to the bloody seven kingdoms, and I couldn’t even serve the North properly.” 

Sansa froze. Rhaegar and Lyanna? She thought back to Littlefinger telling her their story, under the crypts. Sansa had drawn strength from Lyanna, from the idea that she was not the first Stark girl to go through a man like Ramsay. But maybe Rhaegar had been more like Littlefinger, manipulating a younger girl to his advantage. 

She pushed the thought away. Jon needed her now. She rubbed her arms up and down his arms, trying to soothe him. “You’re still a Stark, then. Just as much as I am. You’re just part dragon, instead of fish. Still scally.” she tried to joke, imagining how Robb would react, trying to put a smile on his face. 

Her heart lifted as Jon opened his eyes and tried to control his lips. “You’re just going to accept it, then?”

Sansa nodded. “You’re still a Stark, still family. Just a cousin, now.” She tried to control her feelings. Cousins were different than brothers, but it still changed nothing about their circumstances. 

“How are you being so calm?” he muttered. “This is dangerous, this secret. Your father died without telling anyone, even your Lady mother.” 

Sansa swallowed. She hadn’t thought about that. “I’m sure he didn’t know if he could trust her, at first,” she said, trying to give her father the benefit of the doubt. “But later…” she trailed off, trying to imagine a different world, one where her mother wasn’t heartbroken over her father’s betrayal. 

“You should be angry,” Jon said, gaining passion in his voice. “Here I sit, a Targaryen, Aegon Targaryen, the man who stole your birthright, and I went off and laid with another Targaryen! I’m the worst nightmare your mother could have ever had! She’d feel so vindicated,” he said bitterly. 

“Do you want me to shout at you?” Sansa hissed, pulling back from him. “Do you want me to be angry? Would that make you feel better?” 

“It might!” Jon snapped back, standing up and walking to glare out the window. 

“Well, fine!” Sansa stood as well, directing her words to his back. “I am angry at you! I’m angry you left me all by myself with Littlefinger! I’m furious you bent the knee without even consulting me! And I’m heartbroken that you laid with the dragon queen!” She roared, feeling like the dragon Jon claimed to be.

“Heartbroken?” Jon whispered, turning around. All the fight seemed to slip out of him, his eyes were wide and shocked. 

“Yes,” she breathed. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now seemed as good a time as any to admit it. The feelings that had been haunting her since he road South. It seemed they would be impossible to ignore any longer. “Heartbroken. Ever since Baelish told me that you should try for marriage with the Dragon Queen, how it would be such a good match, how beautiful she was, I’ve been heartbroken.” 

Jon seemed frozen, unable to react. “Why?” he asked. 

“You know why, Jon. You have to know.” She couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t see her glances, where he didn't wonder about her reaction to the dragon queen. 

“Maybe I don’t,” he replied, taking a step closer to her. 

“Then you know nothing, Jon Snow,” she whispered.

His lips curved up, and suddenly he laughed. 

“How can this be funny to you?” Sansa couldn’t think of a less appropriate time to laugh. 

“It’s not,” Jon replied. “It really isn’t, I promise.” He walked closer to her, their breath intermingling. “Ygritte said the same to me once.” 

“Your wildling girl?” Sansa remembered him telling her about the red-headed girl, back at Castle Black. 

Jon nodded. “I was just thinking I must be attracted to a certain type of woman, that’s all.” 

“What does Ygritte have to do with the Dragon Queen?” she asked, feeling hurt that her feelings had been completely ignored. 

“Not Daenerys,” he replied. Jon composed himself, the laughter gone from his face. “I only laid with her to get her here Sansa, I promise. I felt nothing for her even before I found out she was my aunt.”

“And after?” Sansa whispered. She hadn’t even processed Jon’s relationship with Daenerys. Targaryens did often have relationships with each other, for reasons other than politics. Did this make Jon more likely to pursue the Dragon Queen? 

“After? I promise she’s not the one I am thinking about, not anymore, Cousin.” His voice had gone rough. They were still breathing each other’s air. The moment seemed to hang between them, both understanding that this would impact them for years to come. Sansa felt her heart tighten. She’d wanted a love from the songs when she was young, and it finally seemed as if she’d get one.

“It’s you, Sansa,” Jon whispered. “It’s always been you. It’s why I attacked Baelish in the crypts, why I spared Theon. Why I bent the knee. I made a promise to you, to keep you safe. Because I love you.” 

Sansa gasped. Hearing the words overwhelmed her. Before she could let herself think about the negatives, before she could talk herself out of it, she reached for him and kissed him. 

Jon’s lips were chapped from the cold, but the passion in their kiss easily made up for that. For a moment, it was as if they were anywhere else in the world, instead of the dark, cursed Broken Tower. They could have been beneath the Weirwood, or on the edge of the sea. Sansa readjusted her face, wanting to take in as much of Jon as she could. He tasted better than every lemon cake she'd ever had, felt more solid against her than anything she'd ever touched. They moved against each other in a rhythm that seemed to show how in sync they were. The connection they strived for while strategizing, while trying to work together, seemed to finally present itself here, their lips moving together.

His arms wrapped around her, and she could feel his legs straining against her as he reached for her lips, their height difference more evident than ever. It was easily the best kiss she’d ever had, but she didn’t have much to compare it with, she thought, as she sighed into his lips. 

Jon tried to adjust his arms under her furs when a loud noise outside the window forced them apart. 

It was Drogon, the Dragon Queen’s larger black dragon. He swooped by a second time, almost too close for comfort in a tower that was already falling apart. 

Sansa looked back at Jon. His cheeks were flushed, and she imagined hers were as well. He met her eyes, and said, “I suppose she wouldn’t be too happy about this.” 

“No, I would think not,” Sansa replied. Daenerys didn’t see the type to be happy about anything that didn’t benefit her directly. She thought about Jon’s parentage, which was another thing she doubted the Dragon Queen would be pleased about. 

“Is your secret your plan?” she asked, thinking back to his statement at the meeting this morning, trying to get them back on topic, ignoring her own racing heart. “Do you want to hold it against her?”

Jon shrugged. “Honestly, I thought you’d be the one figure it out. The last few moons clearly proved you are much better at this kind of thing than I am.” 

“Jon, you should give yourself more credit,” Sansa said, thinking of Jon, alone in the South, as she had been. “It did hurt me, but you made the right choice. You got her here. Let me figure out how to get her out.” 

Jon smiled at her, one that lit up his whole face. “Thank you, Sansa.”

She tried not to blush from his full attention. “It’s my turn to protect you. I’ll make sure you stay here, I promise.” 

Jon reached out and hugged her again. She felt safe in his arms, felt as if she could do this, could go toe to toe with Daenerys, Tyrion, and Varys, and keep their family safe and together. 

“I’ll need to talk to Arya,” she said, pulling back from him to look him in the eye. “She has some skills that can help here, I think.”

“Politics and Arya?” he asked, lips smirking. 

“It’s more like blood magic and Arya,” she replied, moving to the side of the room to pull out Arya’s bag of faces.

Jon blanched. “Are those...faces?” 

“Yes,” Sansa replied, setting them down again. She didn’t want to ruin whatever order Arya had them in. “She learned to be a faceless man in Braavos.” She paused for a moment. “We have Littlefinger’s face in here, just in case.” 

“Arya told me what happened,” Jon said, anger creeping back into his face. “I should have killed him before I left.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Sansa replied. “Everyone who saw him murdered will stay silent. And now we have an advantage against Varys and Tyrion.” 

“You’re going to have Arya pretend to be him?” Jon asked, eyes wide. He was clearly trying to get used to the idea of Arya as an assassin, something Sansa had struggled with for the last few months. Arya had always been rough, had always wanted to learn how to fight, but conflating that with their sister being an actual assassin was still difficult.

“Yes,” Sansa said. “We need to put some doubt in their minds about Daenerys, need to make her feel as if they don’t trust her.” 

“Why?” Jon asked.

“If we tell her your secret, tell her we won’t pursue your claim if she leaves the North alone, we need her to feel challenged,” Sansa said, trying to visualize this all playing out. “We need her to want to do better than her advisors expect her too.” 

“Do you really think that would work? Do you think she’d fall for it that easily?” Jon looked worried, the true danger of the situation evident on his face. 

“No,” Sansa said. “I think this is going to require a great deal of luck, to be honest. You know her better than I. How do you think she’ll react?” 

“Not well,” Jon set his face. “But if she thinks she has no other choice, if she thinks we’ll fight her to the death, we can get an advantage.” 

Sansa thought of the Lannister forces, of the Tullys marching North. “I think I can find a way to make her more intimidated by our forces.” 

She told him of Jaime Lannister and the armies he was marching North. They had to be the most exhausted armies in all of Westeros, but they were two more armies already added to the might of the North. 

“And with Theon here, maybe we can convince her the Greyjoy forces can be split in half, that Theon would follow us,” she wondered out loud, pacing across the tower. 

“And I flew one of the dragons,” Jon said, almost as an afterthought.

Sansa turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Daenerys talked me into flying one,” Jon said, almost embarrassed for a moment. “Maybe Rhaegal could bond with me, and I could use that to threaten her.” 

“You flew the dragon named for Rhaegar Targaryen?” Sansa asked, trying to imagine Jon on top of one of those great beasts, hundreds of feet in the air. She almost wanted to shout at him about the danger, but there had been enough shouting for the night. Sansa didn’t want to hurt him anymore when the truth was clearly already paining him enough. 

Jon nodded. “Aye. My father,” he said bitterly, his words echoing Sansa’s thoughts.

“He may be your blood father, but you know you are as much Ned Stark’s son as Bran is,” she said. Sansa didn’t want him to dwell on this. “You are still Jon, still a direwolf. Ghost is proof of that.” 

Jon smiled. “I’ll try to remember.” 

Sansa put her thoughts back to their plan. “We need to talk with Arya and Bran. Theon and Sam as well, I think.”

Jon nodded, his bitterness evaporated. “Then we can all be on the same page. I can let them know, and we can try to meet.”

“Tonight,” Sansa decided. “By the heart tree. We can talk about what happens at the meeting, and then try to plan from there.” 

“That sounds good to me,” Jon said. They both looked at each other for a moment. This thing between them would need to be addressed, too, Sansa knew. 

“We can talk about us later,” Jon said, trying to give her a way out. 

Sansa shook her head. “Can there ever be an us? To the world, we’re still siblings. And to keep you North, that may be all we can be.” 

“We can find a way,” Jon whispered, reaching for her face. He cupped her cheek with his hand. “I promise.”

Sansa smiled and placed her hand on top of his. “You and your promises.” She didn’t doubt him, though. 

She was done doubting. It was winter, and winter was a time for belief in each other. 

It was a time for the wolves to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit lengthy. Jon and Sansa got away from me, a bit. I hope everyone enjoys! Thank you all for the lovely reactions. xx


	4. Bran Stark I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime meets Daenerys. Bran thinks of the past. The Starks prepare for their enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All recognizable dialogue is from 8x02- Some dialogue fit the scene well, even with the changes.

The sun was bright over the Godswood. It was midday, and the light was reflecting across the pond. The sunlight wasn’t distracting the children running through the woods, their laughter carrying across the yard. 

Bran walked slowly, taking in the experience. He and his siblings were rushing through the yard, all too young to have a care in the world. Arya was chasing Jon, barefoot with her hair flying behind her. She couldn’t have been more than six years old. Jon was laughing as she tried to catch him. On the other side of the tree, Sansa rode on Robb’s shoulders, instructing him to attack Theon, who was carrying Bran. "Kill the dragon!" Sansa shrieked, as Robb twirled her around, laughing. 

Sansa was nearly eight, but Bran was just a baby, giving Theon a considerable advantage as he and Robb ran at each other. But he was still trying hard not to drop the baby, older Bran noted. It made his heart twist. But the smile on his face refused to fade away as he watched his siblings shout at each other in play.

Here, in the past, he could be himself. The Three-Eyed Raven didn’t control him, limit his emotions. He knew he should be watching something useful, something to help them defeat the Others, but he needed a moment, to remember what they were all fighting for. 

Back in his own time, Bran opened his eyes. He felt the smile slide off his face, and he was aware of the cold air around him. It had been a few hours since he had begun searching the past, and the sun was on the other side of the sky, just beginning to set. Arya was long gone, Bran noted, seeing fresh snow covering the area where she had sat. 

He was trying to reach out to her, to Jon and Sansa, but the Raven controlled him. He was trapped, and he couldn’t let them know how bad it felt, to be so removed from his emotions. They’d all want to help him, and they didn’t have the time to worry about the moral implications of his powers. They had to save the world, and then Bran would let them in. 

He was surprised that he was not alone out in the woods, however. Others normally avoided the Godswood while he was here, the whites of his eyes scaring them off. Gilly, Sam’s wildling lover, was sitting next to the pond, her son walking along the edge, her hand in his. 

“Hello,” Bran called, deciding Gilly had to be here for a reason. She looked over at him and smiled. She picked up her son, and stood up and headed over to greet him. 

“Hello, Bran,” she said. Gilly had, when they first met, insisted on calling him Lord Stark, but Bran was not a Lord, and at this point, he barely felt he was a Stark. She had eventually given in and called him Bran, a bit nervously at the beginning. “I have a message for you.”

“What is it?” Bran assumed it was from one of his siblings. By now they should all know the secret and were all beginning to plan what to do with it. They no doubt would want to meet, and talk in person. 

“Jon wants to have a meeting tonight, with your other siblings. He also wants Sam and Theon Greyjoy there.” Gilly began to bounce her son on her hip, as he began to fuss slightly. “He also said he would be here to help you to the meeting with the Dragon Queen.” 

“Thank you,” Bran said. He did not know exactly how much time had passed, but he assumed the meeting was going to start soon. “Did you think about what I told you?” 

Gilly’s face tensed slightly. “Yes. I know you mean well, but I’m not leaving Sam here alone. The baby will be fine,” she said, switching him to her other hip. He was getting almost too large for that, Bran noted. 

“I understand you don’t want to leave Sam, but the baby is at risk,” Bran said. He did not think the Others would come directly for him or the baby, but they would have an interest in both of them. “They think the baby would be owed to them. He deserves a better fate than that.” 

“Well, we better win this war, then,” Gilly said fiercely. Bran smiled internally. Gilly had a fierceness that reminded him of his mother, of Arya, of Meera. The thought made him miss Meera horribly, his heart twisting in his chest. He could still remember every detail of her heartbroken face as he had sent her away. A mistake, he thought. One he regretted every day.

“I agree,” Bran replied, no sign of emotional turmoil on his face. 

Before Gilly could reply, there was a sound at the gate. Bran glanced over his shoulder and saw Jon walking through the snow. He looked exhausted. Bran knew the secret would weigh heavily on Jon’s heart. He just hoped his sisters would be able to sooth Jon’s demons. 

“Hello Jon,” he called. 

“Bran,” Jon replied, approaching the heart tree. “Hello Gilly,” he added, glancing at her. “Thank you for waiting with Bran.”

“Of course, Jon,” Gilly smiled at him. “We better get inside. All this cold air can’t be good for a baby!” She ran her fingers along Little Sam’s chest, and he giggled in response. 

As they walked back towards the castle, Bran watched Jon look almost longingly at the pair of them. Bran knew Jon still pinned for a family, for children. If they could win this war, Bran thought, hopefully, Jon could have his chance. He thought of faceless children, rushing through the Godswood. They could bring laughter back to a castle that missed it desperately, Bran thought. 

But there was no time to dwell on that. “Are we headed to the meeting?” Bran asked, looking up at Jon. 

“Yes,” Jon moved to push Bran towards the castle, following the path GIlly had begun. “Are you alright with meeting tonight?” 

“Of course,” Bran replied. “We have much to talk about, and having Sam and Theon there is a good idea.” 

They lapsed into silence, the noises of the castle filling the air. With the sun setting, there was less going on in the courtyard, but there were still soldiers training, still blacksmiths preparing for the war ahead. Bran felt more comfortable knowing the people of Winterfell were going to be prepared to fight the dead. With the dragons circling above, he almost felt confident about their chances against this threat. 

The Great Hall was already nearly full when they entered. Lords and Ladies from the North, Wildling Leaders, members of Daenerys Targaryen’s forces, and others filled the tables. Sansa was already at the head table, Arya at her side. 

Jon guided Bran to sit on Arya’s other side and moved to sit next to Sansa. Before he could, Sansa hissed something at him, and he sat with one chair between them instead. It was clearly for the Dragon Queen. 

Bran knew little of Daenerys Targaryen personally, mostly because he had not spent the time looking. It was harder for him to see the history of those who had not lived near Wierwoods. Most of what he'd seen of her was through the eyes of the only Northerner amongst her people, Ser Jorah Mormont. And if Bran knew one thing about Jorah, he had a fairly biased view of his queen. But even through those Jorah's eyes, Bran knew Daenerys would prefer to sit where a Queen belongs, in the center of the table. 

Jon was getting better at the game, Bran knew, but Sansa’s life had depended on courtesies for much longer. It would be hard to match her experience. He noted that Jon's face steeled itself, preparing for the meeting ahead. He was learning, Bran noted.

As Jon was sitting down, the door behind them opened, and Bran watched as everyone stood for Daenerys Targaryen. The little Dragon Queen had her hair braided in the style of the Dothraki, and she was in a dark grey dress, still looking a bit like an attempt at Northern attire. She moved by the fire and walked to sit between Jon and Sansa. 

Bran had seen a number of possibilities for the end of the war. They could lose, they could win. But sometimes, the defeat of the Others would only create an even more deadly war, with fire as the enemy. Bran knew he was not allowed to interfere, to change history. But here, living it, he knew he had to find a way to impact it, to keep his family safe. 

His magic was the only way he could. He could not fight in the war, could not plan it. He would not be helpful in assisting the injured. But he could use his magic, Bran thought. It was the only thing that made him useful, he thought, bitterly.

Before he could continue that train of thought, Daenerys began to speak. “I am told this is to be a planning meeting?” she all but announced. She had a very regal voice, Bran noted, forcing himself to focus. As if she knew she had to project an image of being a queen, in order for others to respect her. It had seemed to work in the past, Bran noted, with all of the people following her, but here, in the North, it seemed to fall flat. 

“Yes, your Grace,” Sansa said, turning slightly to look at the Queen. “And I have to begin with a pressing manner. Brienne,” she called. 

The nearest door to the table opened again, and Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne entered, a figure between them. 

At the sight of Jaime Lannister, chaos echoed through the hall. Bran saw Daenerys stand up, mouth wide, and men from the North and South alike began shouting at the Kingslayer. It was not until one of the dragons roared, from outside the castle, that a quiet found the hall. 

Sansa stood as well, and said, “We had a visitor last night. I decided it would make sense to broach the topic now, instead of disturbing your rest, your Grace.” 

Clever, Bran thought. Sansa made it seem as if she was appealing to the Dragon Queen, without actually having given up any of her advantages. Daenerys sat, looking defiant, watching as Brienne and Podrick guided Jaime Lannister to the middle of the room, and took their own seats amongst the crowd. 

“When I was a child, my brother would tell me a bedtime story about the man who murdered our father,” Daenerys began, her face like ice. “Who stabbed him in the back and cut his throat. Who sat down on the Iron Throne and watched as his blood poured onto the floor.” 

She paused for a moment. Her face may have been as frozen as ice, but her eyes, even from Bran’s angle, looked like fire. Bran knew Daenerys had the right to hate Jaime Lannister, as he had murdered her father. But Bran was just as much a victim of Jaime’s actions as Daenerys was, and even he had a hard time thinking of this man, now crippled, looking pale and unhealthy, as more than a faded lion, a man whose greatest actions were long past. But Bran was not a queen and had no influence here. It was Daenerys whose opinions mattered. 

“He told me other stories as well. About all the things we would do to that man once we took back the Seven Kingdoms and had him on our grasp,” she hissed, eyes like slits. 

Daenerys sat for a moment, fuming in her anger. The rest of the hall was silent, allowing the roars of the two dragons to penetrate the walls. 

“Your sister pledged to send her army north,” Daenerys prompted, her anger further under her control. 

“She did,” Jaime replied, looking just as exhausted as he had this morning. His hands were bound before him, making the golden one even more obvious. 

“I don’t see an army,” Daenerys replied flippantly, lips tight. “I see one man, with one hand. It appears your sister lied to me.” 

Jaime swallowed. “She did lie, yes. But I do not come alone. The Lannister forces who remained in the Westerlands are at my back, as well as the remaining Tully forces from the Riverlands.” 

A mutter picked up across the room. The Northern Lords knew what it meant that the Lannisters and the Tullys were working together. That was an accomplishment, one that could help with the war effort, even if it meant a Lannister had to stand before them.

“But she still has her forces,” Daenerys refused to back down. Bran would have been impressed, as he had been with Gilly in the Godswood if he did not know what this woman could be capable of. Since Sansa learned than Jon was to come North, she, Arya, and Bran had been attempting to learn as much of the young Targaryen as possible. There were stories of slave masters nailed to crosses, of children burnt to a crisp, Dothraki holy sites destroyed. Some of these actions seemed just, but others seemed acts of revenge, or worse, just outright cruelty. Daenerys was a wild card, and her anger led to death. 

“She has Euron Greyjoy’s fleet, and the Golden Company from Essos, bought and paid for,” Jaime allowed. He had done the best he could, Bran knew. He wondered if Daenerys would care. “Even if we defeat the dead, she’ll still have more than enough to destroy the survivors,” Jaime added, looking forlorn.

“ ‘We’ ?” Daenerys asked, still refusing to give Jaime any credit. 

“I promised to fight for the living,” Jaime announced. “I intend to keep that promise.” He looked back at Brienne for a moment, as if sharing the promise with her alone. 

Tyrion Lannister, sitting at the table near the window with a number of Daenerys’s advisors, said, “Your Grace, I know my brother-”

“Like you knew your sister?” Daenerys interrupted, eyes narrowed, 

“He came here alone, knowing full well how he’d be received. Why would he do that if he weren’t telling the truth?” Tyrion pleaded, looking at the Queen with desperation in his eyes. 

“Perhaps he trusts his little brother to defend him, right up to the moment he slits my throat,” Daenerys hissed. Bran had not realized how bad their relationship had become. He wondered if it was even worth it to use Tyrion to influence Daenerys if she refused to listen to him in public. 

“You’re right,” Sansa said, standing. It was time for the Starks to regain control in this situation, Bran thought. “We can’t trust him. He attacked my father in the streets. He tried to destroy my house and my family, the same as he did yours.” 

Common ground, Bran thought. Sansa was good at this.

“Do you want me to apologize?” Jaime chuckled darkly. He was almost putting it on too thick, Bran thought. The rest of the hall seemed to be falling for it. “I won’t. We were at war. Everything I did, I did for my house and my family. I’d do it all again.”

This was his moment. “The things we do for love,” Bran echoed.

Jaime turned and looked at him, eyes wide. This had not been a part of the plan. The two of them hadn’t even discussed what happened, but Bran wanted him to know it wasn’t forgotten. It would never be, as long as he lived. 

“So why have you abandoned your house and your family now?” Daenerys demanded as the attention in the room went back to her. Just as she’d wanted, Bran noted. 

“Because this goes beyond loyalty,” Jaime said passionately. He turned again to Brienne. “This is about survival.” 

Brienne stood as well, eyes still on Jaime. She walked past the other Stark advisors, Ser Davos and a number of Lords from the North and the Vale, and stood next to him, and addressed Daenerys. “You don’t know me well, Your Grace. But I know Ser Jaime,” she said eagerly. “He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prisoner and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me. And lost his hand because of it.” 

She then directed her words to Sansa. “Without him, my Lady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home because he’d sworn an oath to your mother.” Bran thought of his mother. Would she vouch for Jaime Lannister? At this point, game or no, she might, he thought, looking at Sansa. 

“You vouch for him?” Sansa asked evenly. 

“I do.” 

“You would fight beside him?” 

“I would,” Brienne said, head held high. Bran looked back at Jaime. He wasn’t acting anymore, no false bravo towards Sansa. He was looking at Lady Brienne with a softness in his eyes which reminded Bran of his father looking at his mother. 

“I trust you with my life,” Sansa said, her emotionless mask slipping slightly as she looked at Brienne with affection in her eyes. “If you trust him with yours, we should let him stay.” It was as if the words had to be dragged out of her. But she did it, Bran thought. She had appealed to Daenerys without begging, had manipulated her subtly. All that was left was to see if she went for the bait. 

“What does the Warden of the North say about it?” Daenerys demanded, turning her eyes to Jon. 

Jon sighed, and said, “We need every man we can get.” Jon’s almost obsessive attention towards the War with the Dead was helpful here, almost a sneaky way to allow him and Sansa to agree without Daenerys becoming too suspicious. 

Daenerys pursed her lips, clearly unhappy with Jon, but replied, “Very well.” 

Jaime inhaled sharply from the center of the room. “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

Daenerys motioned him away with her hand. “Just because I’m allowing you to stay does not mean I want you in my sight.”

Jaime and Brienne turned to leave the floor when Sansa called out. “When are your forces expected to arrive, Ser Jaime?” 

Jaime glanced back at the table, eyes darting between Sansa and Daenerys. “Within the next two weeks, I’d assume, my Lady. Unless the weather keeps them longer.” 

“Thank you,” Sansa replied. At her word, he and Lady Brienne fled the hall. 

“What else do we need to discuss?” Daenerys addressed Jon, ignoring Sansa completely. 

“We have reports of the Others as far south as Last Hearth,” Jon said, seizing the topic he could handle. “None as far as Long Lake yet, which is where I think we need to make our stand.” 

“With my forces, I assume?” Daenerys said, still seeming a bit on edge. 

“Some of the Dothraki and Unsullied, yes. I was thinking we’d lead with the Wildings and the Knights of the Vale at first, as your forces become accustomed to the Winter, your Grace,” Jon said, not allowing Daenerys to intimidate him. 

“Do you have a specific strategy in mind, Lord Snow?” Tyrion Lannister asked, trying to get involved despite his Queen’s obvious displeasure. 

“I was thinking we’d need to create a line to hold the Others back, without wearing down our men. We could use the line for the dragons to have a place to aim from, and just completely destroy the wights.” Jon spoke with a confidence that Bran knew came from battle experience. He may still feel uneasy around politics, but battle planning is where he shined. 

“I think it could work,” Ser Jorah Mormont said, from where he sat along the window. “The dragons can only do so much, so we should plan on creating some sort of fire wall, as well.” 

Jon nodded. “That would work as well. We should build one around Winterfell, just in case,” he added, thinking aloud. 

“We can meet with the battle commanders, Your Grace, to work out the details,” Ser Jorah said. The man was another mystery to Bran. He remembered very faintly of the man being banished from the North, and yet Daenerys Targaryen disrespected his father’s memory and brought him back. He seemed a good battle commander, but Bran did not trust him. He was too loyal to Daenerys, too likely to sacrifice himself for her, instead of looking at the bigger picture. Bran thought to seeing Danereys through Mormont's eyes. He was in love, and as Jaime Lannister had proven, it was hard to be objective when you were in love with a monster.

Daenerys smiled at him, anger dissipated and nodded. “I await your report, Ser Jorah.” She looked up and down the table. “Are there any other concerns?” she asked, directing this towards Sansa.

“No, your Grace,” Sansa replied, her emotionless mask returning. 

Daenerys nodded, and said, “Very well.” She stood, and the hall stood with her. But before she could move, Sansa turned on her heel and left. 

Bran smiled inwardly. Sansa was playing to win. 

Arya approached him in the midst of the hustle. “Do you want to go back to the Weirwood?” she asked, hands already on the handles of Bran’s chair. 

“No,” Bran replied. He was tired of being cold. If they were meeting out there later tonight, Bran could stay here, next to the fire, for a few hours. He didn’t need to use his greensight, not until he knew what path his siblings had decided to take. “Just take me by the fire, please.” 

Arya obliged. “I’ll see you tonight, little brother,” she called, heading back to the yard. 

Bran watched the fire, listening to people leave the hall. By the time everyone had filed out, the servants began rearranging the tables, preparing for dinner. It would not be a large feast, Bran knew. Sansa had worried over the food leaves of Winterfell almost obsessively the last few moons. With the news from the burned harvest in the Reach and the arrival of two more armies, the issue had become even more pressing. 

Sansa had designed one feast for the Queen’s first night, but tonight would return to the small portions that Winterfell had gotten used to the last few weeks. Bran expected grumbling from a number of their new guests, but he feared for anyone who questioned Sansa’s planning abilities. 

He watched the flames flicker and thought about the Dragon Queen. He could not see into the future with certainty, but he could predict it, based on the actions of the past. The Dragon Queen was not her father. She was far more dangerous than Aerys had ever been, with two dragons at her back. Her anger was frightening, as anyone with that much power represented a threat. Bran thought she could be tamed however, if they played her correctly. 

He hoped both he and his siblings were up to the task. 

Bran remained lost in his thoughts all through dinner, listening to people return to the hall. Sansa at one point appeared and thrust a bowl of stew in his hands. He ate reluctantly, knowing it was pointless to fight her. The Great Hall was not as cheerful as it had been the evening before, but there was still laughter floating up and down the hall as the people of Winterfell took refuge in the warmest part of the castle. 

Bran did not remember a Winter. He'd been born in the long summer, as had Arya and Rickon. But his greensight had shown him the actions of people in winters past. The warmth of the hearth, the noise of an entire castle in one hall, and the thick snowfall seen through the small windows all seemed to echo winters past, and no doubt, future as well. The North would endure, Bran thought, glancing around the hall. They always had. The North, with the Starks at the helm, would survive to see new winters, some even worse than this one. All they had to do was to get through this one first.

Jon was eating silently, still seated next to the Dragon Queen. Arya wasn’t at the head table either, sitting instead with the Hound and a man Bran recognized as Gendry, from her stories. Sansa was speaking to Ser Davos, talking about how she and Maester Wolkan had begun creating stores of medical supplies for the coming war. 

They were all home. Sometimes, Bran could not believe it. He had missed them all terribly when he had woken up from his fall. He hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. For a long time, he didn’t think he would ever see them again, his sisters lost to the South, and Jon on the Wall. But all four of them had made it home, despite all odds against them. 

As the hall began clearing, Bran finished his stew and handed it to a passing servant, muttering his thanks. They would have to wait until Daenerys and her advisors, as well as anyone else who may be loyal to her, retired for the night. Bran assumed they would arrive at the Weirwood individually, at least except for him. Arya would no doubt come for him. She sent a great deal of time moving him from one place to another, and spending time with him. It wasn’t the same as when they were children, running through the halls and causing trouble. But she stayed with him, all the same, and Bran found that the time they spent together was the time he looked forward to the most each day. 

And almost if on cue, Arya arrived, asking, “Do you want to go the Godswood?” Bran smiled internally. She was just loud enough that anyone in the hall listening in would have assumed it was just another night with the younger Stark siblings, sitting out in the cold. Bran’s nightly habits were coming in handy. 

They took their normal route to the Godswood, Arya dodging piles of snow. The night was dark already, and there was a steady flow of snow falling from the clouds. The outside of the castle was much quieter than the halls, with even the stablehands and blacksmiths retreating indoors to hide from the chill. Bran felt the cold in his bones, but it felt familiar, like the long months he spent traveling with the Reeds and Hodor, far north of the Wall. 

They entered the Godswood, and the snowfall slowed, much of it caught in the trees. Bran’s tracks from earlier were covered completely, leaving a fresh layer of snow blanketing the ground. Arya moved him to his normal position next to the Heart Tree, and sat on the ground as she always did. She waited several moments, as if listening for anyone who may have followed them, and then said, “Theon will be here next, just so you know.” 

Bran nodded. He hadn’t spoken to Theon yet, but he assumed it would be even more uncomfortable than his look with Jaime Lannister. At least the Kingslayer had been a stranger. Theon had been as good as his brother. He had been there Bran’s entire life, not as friendly as Robb, but just as present. “Does he know about Jon yet?” 

Arya shook her head. “Sansa asked if we could tell him,” she replied, her lips tight. Arya had never been close to Theon, Bran knew. She had always preferred Jon, and the fights between Jon and Theon would have prevented a good relationship between them even before Theon had betrayed Robb. Bran waited, knowing Arya would need to say something. 

“I don’t know how Sansa can forgive him,” Arya admitted. “I know he helped save her from that dog Ramsay, but he still betrayed Robb. He still hurt you and Rickon!” 

“He did,” Bran agreed. “But Sansa saw how Theon suffered for those mistakes. I think she feels he’s suffered enough.” 

“I don’t know if anyone can suffer enough if they’re still alive,” Arya muttered. “But I’ll be nice. I promise. Just no treating him like a brother.” 

“Did you ever even do that?” Bran asked. 

Arya bit her lip. “No. I don’t know. I did think of him that way, sometimes.” 

“I always did,” Bran said. “He was there my entire life.” He thought back to the memory he had seen earlier. “That’s why it hurt so much, I think. For me, and for Robb, too.”

They sat in silence for a few moments. “I was betrayed by someone close to me, too,” Arya said softly. Bran didn’t reply, waiting for her to continue. She hadn’t shared much about her last few years, and Bran knew that this had to be important to her. “Someone who helped me survive the Riverlands. He was a faceless man. He’s the one who gave me the idea to go to Braavos.” She paused for a moment, looking as if she was trying to find the right words. “He trained me, but when I didn’t kill someone for the Many-Faced God, he turned on me, sent an assassin after me. After I killed her, he let me go.” 

“Why?” 

“I think he wanted me to go home. I think he didn’t think I should have been there,” Arya bit her lip again. “I thought maybe he didn’t think I could do it, but it could have been something else.” 

“He knew you were needed here,” Bran said softly. The magic of the Faceless Men was different than his own, but they no doubt knew as he did the importance of this moment in history. Arya was to play an important role, as they all were. 

“I hope so,” Arya whispered, her eyes shut. “It hurts, even though I’m happy I’m home now.”

Bran understood that. He thought of Jojen and Hodor, sacrificing themselves for him. He thought of Rickon, his baby brother, who he would never see again. He thought of Meera, and his heart ached again. He shouldn’t have sent her away. He didn’t even know if she’d ever talk to him again, let alone forgive him.

Which is all I deserve, he thought sadly. Bran thought being the Three-Eyed Raven would be easier without Meera with him, reminding him how he used to be human. But it wasn’t that simple. Now he was struggling with his humanity and missing her at the same time. 

He and Arya sat in silence, both listening to the snowfall. It had started to let up slightly, but snowflakes continued to drop, powdering their hair and furs. The moments passed slowly, as they waited for the others to join them. Sansa had told them all to wait until a specific person was gone, which meant it might take some longer than others to make it out to the Godswood. Arya and Bran were given a pass solely because they were always leaving early. It was nice to be a younger sibling, Bran thought, feeling a smirk ghost across his face.

Samwell was the first to arrive. He was breathing heavily, wrapped up in more furs than Bran and Arya combined. Bran wanted to smile. Sam may have lived at the Wall for years, but his trip to Oldtown proved the Southern roots within him were still alive and well. 

“Hello,” he greeted the pair of them. “It took longer than I expected for Tyrion Lannister to leave, and I didn’t want to go until he had.” 

“That’s fine, Sam,” Arya said, motioning to the ground next to her. “You aren’t missing much, anyway.” Sam moved and joined Arya on the ground. 

Before Sam could say anything else, they all heard footsteps in the snow. Bran glanced down the path and saw Theon walking slowly, looking unnerved. He hadn’t been here since Sansa’s wedding, Bran realized. Theon would have almost as much cause to want to forget the night as Sansa did. 

Theon glanced up, meeting Bran’s eyes. He froze, mouth open. Before he could say anything, Arya called, “Get over here Greyjoy, we can’t talk if you’re halfway to King’s Landing!”

Theon snorted, surprising himself, and walked closer. He stood between the three of them and the pond, still looking uneasy. 

“We have something to tell you,” Bran said, getting directly to the point. He knew Theon would want to talk about their past, but he knew he would need to process Jon’s secret before the others arrived. “It’s about Jon.” 

Surprise crossed Theon’s face, and he stepped closer. “What is it?” 

“It’s about his parents,” Sam said. “I’m Sam Tarly, by the way,” he added. “Jon’s Night’s Watch brother.” 

Theon nodded at him. “Theon Greyjoy. I grew up here in Winterfell, so I suppose I’m sort of Jon’s brother, too.” Bran’s chest ached, thinking back to his conversation with Arya. Thinking that Theon still considered himself their brother hurt, especially when Bran thought of Rodrick Cassel shouting at them not to look as Theon cut off his head. 

But it had been years, Bran reminded himself. Theon, just like the rest of them, had been through all seven hells while they were apart. What Theon did would never make him less the boy they grew up with. Bran knew he, like Arya, would struggle with this for the rest of their lives. 

Sam smiled weakly. “Nice to meet you, Theon.” He hesitated for a moment, as if waiting for Arya or Bran to step in. When he realized it was his moment, he started to explain. “While I was South, learning how to be a Maester, I found records of a wedding and a birth.” 

Theon didn’t say anything but looked intently at Sam. The weight of the secret seemed to weigh on him, as well. 

“Jon is the legitimate son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen,” Sam said, the passion in his eyes returning as he spoke about his friend. “He is the true heir to the seven kingdoms.” 

Theon’s eyes widened. “What? Jon’s a prince?” 

Sam nodded weakly. “Eddard Stark lied to everyone to protect him.” 

Theon started pacing. “The honorable Ned Stark lied all these years, to keep him safe?” 

“You know what would have happened to him, if his partentage was known,” Bran said, cutting in. “Robert Baratheon would have had him killed, no matter who his mother was.” 

Theon sat down in the snow, almost as if defeated by the truth. “All this time, Jon’s been the heir to the throne, while all these people have been fighting over that chair that was his.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “He could have me killed for the way I treated him.” 

“Or other things you’ve done,” Arya muttered, but Theon didn’t seem to hear. He ran his hand through his hair, cut shorter than in his youth, and looked back at Bran. “Is that why we’re here? To talk about it?” 

Bran nodded. “Sansa said you should be here while we plan what’s to come.” 

Theon smiled softly. Bran knew the two of them would always have this effect on each other, the result of shared trauma the rest of them could only imagine. It made him a little happy, that Theon could still have that with at least one of the Starks. 

“I did,” Sansa said. Theon and Sam jumped. Bran let himself smile, while next to him, Arya was equally unnerved. “Sorry,” Sansa said, not looking all that regretful, and moved to sit on the ground between Bran and Theon. 

“Grey Worm took more time than I expected,” Sansa said, adjusting her skirts against the snow. “Jon should be here soon, Varys was leaving as I was.” 

“Did he suspect anything?” Arya asked, eyes narrowed. 

“I don’t think so,” Sansa replied, looking at her sister. “He seemed unnerved about Jaime, I think.”

“That was clever, what you did,” Arya said, smiling at Sansa. “Making Daenerys think you were trying to bond with her.” 

Sansa shrugged, trying to not take the credit. “It was easy. She seems to thrive on thinking she’s special. I just had to show her that I wanted to have something in common with her.” Her face went dark. “I don’t think it will last very long.” 

“No, I doubt that,” Sam said, surprising himself with his comment. “She won’t be happy you won’t accept her as her queen.” 

“If we can plan this correctly, we will be able to manipulate her so she’ll never even think it was an option,” Sansa said, lips pursed together as she thought. “As soon as Jon gets here, I’ll go over a rough outline of the plan.” 

“Sounds good,” Arya said, eyes lighting up. “Just tell me who to kill.” 

“Hopefully no one,” Sansa said, eyes narrowing. “But we’ll need your face skills.” At Theon’s open mouth, she added, “Arya’s a faceless man. She learned when she was in Braavos.” 

“So you better watch out, Greyjoy,” Arya snarled. Bran wanted to laugh. She really wasn’t going to go easy on him at all. 

Theon opened his mouth, possibly to tell Arya to stay the hell away from his face, but before he could, they heard footsteps in the snow. 

Bran and the other turned again to glance down the path. Jon was walking slowly, his hand in Ghost’s fur as he walked besides him. The large direwolf had been upset while Jon had been in the South, moping and following Sansa around. He had joined Bran in the Godswood a few times, and Bran had wondered if he was looking into Ghost’s eyes, or the eyes of his brother, trapped far in the South. 

“Hello,” Jon called as the two approached. Ghost walked to sit next to Sansa, who slid her hands into his snow white fur. Jon smiled softly at them, before moving to sit next to Sam. 

They all sat in silence, waiting for someone else to appear and interrupt their planning. When no one did, Sansa said softly, “Alright. We all know why we’re here. I have the rough outline of a plan, but I’ll need all of you to make it work. Jon and I were talking earlier, and while we agree it will be difficult to manipulate Daenerys, it might just be possible. She’s chaotic, unpredictable in most things.” 

“But not one,” Jon said, face set. This was war planning, no doubt, just as it had been that afternoon. It was where he excelled. “She wants to be special, to be seen as a woman unlike any other. That’s why she loves her dragons, it’s why she was so interested in me when Davos let slip about my murder.” Before Theon could ask, Jon added, “I was killed by my brothers, Theon. A red witch brought me back.” Theon shut his mouth, clearly deciding that was less surprising than Jon being a prince. 

“So we need to make her think she’s making a choice that will make her more special,” Arya said, eyes alight again. “So we need to push her to making a choice that makes her special, but also helps us.” 

“Yes,” Sansa said, nodding. “Exactly. We need to make her think that a free North, one with all of us here in Winterfell, could work for her advantage.” 

They all sat in silence for a moment, until Arya asked, “But if she finds out Jon’s a Targaryen, won’t she want him with her? You know…,” she paused motioning with her hands. “As her Targaryen King?” 

“No,” Jon said, decisively. “She would never want to share power with someone, as an equal. I would have the better claim, so if my parentage was known, she’d have to defer the throne to me.” 

“But you don’t want that,” Arya said, shifting in the snow slightly. 

“No, I don’t,” Jon said, glancing at Sansa. Bran smiled internally, thinking of faceless children running through the trees. “I want to stay here. But if we want that, we need to make her think we have enough forces to oppose her. We have the Northmen, the Free Folk, and the Knights of the Vale, which is a good start, but not enough against her forces and her dragons.” 

“We’ll have the Tully forces too, once they get here,” Sansa added. “Edmure Tully might think he’s coming North to put one of us on the Northern Throne, but he’ll find out we’re not children, and not so easily manipulated,” she said, looking smug. “We won’t be the pawns in his game, but he’ll be a pawn in ours.” 

“What about me?” Theon asked. “What do I have that can help?” 

“You’re family!” Sansa said, while the others refused to meet Theon’s eyes. He could be family to Sansa, and that could be enough, Bran hoped. He wouldn’t get that affection from Arya or Bran. He wasn’t sure where Jon stood on Theon, but they hadn’t been close in their childhood, so Bran doubted that would change. “You also can show Daenerys that we can have power at sea, if she could be convinced you’d side with us over your sister. And that some of your men would follow you.” 

Theon hesitated. “I’m not sure if they would, to be honest. Asha has their respect, something I have very little of, even after saving her.” 

“You came North with men, didn’t you?” Jon asked. “Those men followed you.” 

“Not enough to make a fleet, though,” Theon muttered. He seemed determined to give himself as little credit as possible. 

“We don’t need a fleet,” Jon looked Theon in the eyes. “We just need Daenerys to think we could get one.” 

“You’d just need your men to talk amongst the kitchen staff, the stable hands. Let people know how loyal they are to you, and you to Winterfell,” Sansa suggested. “Between Varys and Tyrion, those words will get to the people we need to hear them.” 

“What about them?” Arya asked, tongue touching her bottom lip. “What do we do about Varys and Tyrion?” 

“That’s where you come in,” Sansa said, facing her sister. “We’ll use Littlefinger’s face, to convince them he’s still alive, and that he has us handled. But you’ll also need to suggest to them both that there’s a better option than Daenerys for the Iron Throne, so they’ll begin to doubt her.” 

“You don’t think they doubt her already?” Bran asked, thinking of Tyrion’s face in the Great Hall. 

“I think they do,” Sansa turned her face to the sky, snowflakes dropping on her cheeks. “But they don’t have a better option. If we suggest to them that we do, we’d be able to make them less loyal to her, and possibly, have them pull back from her.” 

“She’ll think they don’t trust her, and if we play our cards right, want to win them back,” Jon added. “If we lay our suggestion at her feet, she might take it, just to prove to Tyrion and Varys she can be a good ruler, one who is benevolent and worthy to rule.” 

“Do you think she is?” Arya asked softly. 

Jon paused for a moment. “I think with the right advisors, she could be. Her dragons make her more dangerous, but if we’re all here, in the North, we’ll be safe.” 

“But the people in the South won’t,” Sam said. Bran thought of Sam’s family, in Horn Hill. “Can we really doom them to that fate?” 

They sat in silence for a few moments, the future of Westeros at their feet. “I don’t trust Tyrion to make the right decision,” Sansa said, finally. “But I do trust Varys. He was always opposed to Littlefinger down in King’s Landing. If he thinks Danererys can be contained, I think we should stick with the plan. So we can all stay at home, where we belong.” She glanced at Jon again, with a blush on her snow-covered cheeks. "We can readjust the plan later, if we need to," Sansa finished, looking back at them all. 

“I agree with Sansa,” Arya said, stretching her legs out, clearly antsy from sitting so long. “But if you need me to play Tyrion and Varys, how can I be on the front lines during the war?” 

Sansa bit her lip, an echo of Arya’s trait. “I was hoping you’d stay here. Not all the time!” Sansa rushed to add before Arya could interrupt. “But at least when I need you. Then we can make up an excuse for Baelish to go back to the Vale, and get a raven sent back to tell us of his death on the road.” 

Arya’s nostrils flared. “Alright, I suppose.” She paused for a moment, “But when Nymeria gets here, I can use her to warg and fight, right?” 

“Yes,” Bran said, understanding that question would be beyond Sansa and her limited warging experience. “That way you can be in both places, and pass messages between Jon and us, if need be.” 

“Can I ask something?” Sam said nervously, looking at Jon. 

Jon laughed. “You just did, Sam. But go ahead,” he said, a smile ghosting his lips. 

“Are you going to tell Daenerys?” 

The Starks all looked at each other. “We should tell her before the battle begins,” Sansa said finally, her hands petting Ghost anxiously. “After the Tullys arrive. Hopefully, you can bond more with Rhaegal before then, Jon, just so she can feel unnerved about that.” 

“Aye, I’ll try,” Jon said, his eyes watching Sansa’s hands. “We’ll tell her together, as a united front. All four of us.” 

Bran nodded. “I think this could work,” he said, feeling excitement in his chest that he knew his siblings wouldn’t be able to read on his face.

But it almost didn’t matter. They were all together, here, underneath the Wierwoods, working a plan to save the North. Bran’s Three-Eyed Raven curse could be dealt with later. 

All they had to do was make sure there would be a later. A day in the future, where spring would spread across the North again, and children could run around this very heart tree, laughing without a care in the world. 

A dream of spring, one that could exist, if they were very careful. 

Bran couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all of the support! xx


	5. Daenerys Targaryen I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks begin to play the game, while Dany pines for a family. Her advisors look ahead.

The morning chill caused Dany to shiver as she stepped outside the castle. She’d been in Winterfell for nearly a week, for the North for nearly a month, but she never thought she could get used to the cold. She had thought Dragonstone cold when she had arrived from Essos. She could have never imagined the cold she would experience further north.

The sun was just beginning to rise in the distance, and Daenerys headed towards the cresting sun to meet her dragons. They had not been eating well, and Jon’s sister refused to allocate more food for them, insisting they could hunt themselves. 

Daenerys didn’t like her. 

She still hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to any of Jon’s siblings alone, and not at all to the younger two. Jon had made himself scarce since they’d arrived at Winterfell, distracted with his war and his family. Daenerys tried to not be angry with him, but each day it was harder. She’d come North for him, put off her goals, and he couldn’t even speak to her at dinner? She didn’t want to admit how badly it hurt. 

As she passed through the gates, Dany saw lines of tents belonging to her Dothraki and Unsullied. There was not enough room in the castle for all of them, leaving most out in the cold. It was colder here for them, too. The Northerners had given some warmer clothes, but Daenerys had found their efforts lacking there, as well. 

She was to be their queen, she thought bitterly, walking towards a figure standing in front of the rows of tents. She didn’t know how to get the respect of these people who seemed to give so little. 

“Good morning, your Grace,” Missandei said, also shivering in the cold. Daenerys had made sure she had gotten some of the first warm clothes the Northerners had offered, as Missandei had been used to even warmer temperatures in Naath than in Essos. 

“Good morning,” she greeted her friend. One of her only friends. Dany had grown to rely on Missandei over the last few years, for comfort and camaraderie. It wasn’t enough though. She wanted a larger circle, more women she could rely on. On their journey north, Jon had not spoken much, but he’d mentioned how excited he was to see his sisters. Daenerys had let her imagination get away with her, thinking of two girls who looked like Jon, dark and brooding, who would want to spend time with her, tell her of the North and their traditions. She had pined for another relationship like she’d found with Missandei in Meereen. But instead, she found a tall red-headed woman greeting her with narrowed eyes, and Jon’s other sister, who’d yet to speak in Daenerys’ presence. 

She would never be that lucky, she thought sadly. But as she and Missandei cleared the next hill, she could see her dragons sitting in the distance, still asleep. Her heart roared. She didn’t need more close friends, she thought intensely, almost as if trying to convince herself. Not with her dragons. 

“How are you liking the North?” she asked Missandei as they continued their climb. 

Missandei paused for a moment, looking down at her snow-covered boots. “It’s too cold.” 

Daenerys laughed at that. “I quite agree,” she said. “But beyond that?”

“Seeing your Jon Snow come home has made me miss my own,” Missandei admitted. Dany looked at her. Her friend seemed almost worried about her reaction, Dany realized, her lips clenched and her eyes looking downward. 

“Naath? You’ve not been since you were a child,” Daenerys said, confused. Did Missandei want to leave her, right before she triumphed?

“Yes,” Missandei agreed. “But I still miss it. I miss the oceans and butterflies. I would like to return, one day. To see my own people.” 

“One day? So in the future, not now.” Daenerys tried to control her panic. Missandei couldn’t leave her. She needed her. Dany trusted so few people, she couldn’t lose one of them. 

“Not until you win your throne, your Grace,” Missandei reassured her. “Once you are sure the throne is safe, Grey Worm and I would like to leave, with your permission.” 

Grey Worm too? Daenerys felt her panic turn into anger. How could they both leave her? Choose themselves over the world she wanted to build in Westeros? She held her tongue, but she could hear Drogon roaring in the distance, expressing the rage she felt.

Missandei froze next to her, looking rooted to the ground, snow wrapping around her legs. “Is that Drogon?” she asked, looking at Daenerys with concern in her eyes. “Is he alright?” 

Dany nodded, turning to face her. “I think he was just frightened,” she lied. She could feel the anger licking her heart. Missandei was hers, one of her closest advisors. But she tried to control the dragon within. It would do no good to shout at her in public. Dany tried to change the subject, to come up with an excuse for Drogon’s temper. 

“He has seemed uncomfortable in the North since we arrived.” The excuse was true. Dany thought back to Drogon’s stares at Jon. She didn’t know why he had reacted so negatively, especially when she had felt so content. She and Drogon had always seemed so in sync, with similar emotions. Why would he react so badly to Jon? Especially when Rhaegal seemed to adore him. 

“The North can be unnerving,” Missandei offered, interrupting her thoughts. “I often find the children frightened of me.” 

“The children?” Dany asked, surprised. She couldn’t imagine anyone frightened of sweet Missandei. She’d seen few children in the North, besides the ones who had been apart of the smallfolk who had greeted her. They’d all seemed very solemn, just as the adults. There seemed to be no joy within Northerners, Jon and his family included. 

“I do not think they have seen many who do not look like them,” Missandei said. Dany thought of Missandei’s dark skin. The Northerners were unkind to those unlike them, Dany thought. She was the same as Missandei, offering no violence, but still finding no love. 

“Is that why you wish to go home? Because of their reactions?” 

“No,” Missandei said, and then hesitated. “A little. This is not my home, not even Dragonstone. It is yours, and you should have it. But I want to go home, as you were able to.” 

Dany smiled softly at her friend, finding her anger slide away. She had inspired her, Dany realized. Taking back her home had encouraged Missandei to try to do the same. “I will give you a ship when you want to go back,” she said. “You have my word as queen.” 

They continued to walk forward until they reached the crest of the last hill. Dany could see her dragons clearly now, both curled up and asleep, but she was surprised to see a figure between them, looking at Rhaegal. 

“Who is that?” Missandei whispered. Dany didn’t answer but tried to think. It was someone who the dragons did not see as a threat, so they were hopefully safe. But who would be so bold to approach them without her? There was no time to waste. She needed to know. 

“Stay here,” she ordered Missandei, and she rushed forward. The snow had only gotten deeper since she’d last been out here, and she found herself with snow up to her calves. Dany had to take large steps to get anywhere, and walking up the hill was even more difficult. 

When she reached the top of the hill, Drogon had settled down again, his head curled on his legs. The figure next to Rhaegal was kneeling, running his hand along the scales on his face. 

As she got closer, Daenerys realized it was Jon. He was back in his fur cloak, the dark colors almost blending in with the dark green of her dragon’s scales. “Jon!” she called, overjoyed at finally getting him alone. 

He was back with her dragons, she realized, her heart beating fast. He hadn’t wanted to spend time with her, but he wanted her dragons? She was confused. 

“Hello Dany,” Jon called. She tried not to react. She’d already told him not to call her Dany. It reminded her too much of Viserys. But there were too many conflicting feelings in her chest. 

“Not your Grace?” she asked coolly, stepping closer to him. 

“Hello your Grace,” he corrected himself, standing and taking his hand back from her dragon. 

“Why are you out here?” Dany asked, looking up at him. 

“I just wanted to see Rhaegal,” Jon said, not meeting her eyes. He seemed instead insistent at looking just past her shoulder. “After our ride, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him”

“What?” Dany whispered, her heart beating quickly for a whole different reason. Was this bond a good thing? Did it mean Jon was destined to be with her, to rule at her side? 

Jon shrugged, clearly not thinking of it as deeply as she was. “I needed to see him again.” 

Daenerys attempted to calm herself, but thoughts were flying through her head. She might have finally found a man who was worthy of her, of her dragons. She thought back to Daario. She’d never even considered letting him near her dragons, let alone fly one. She thought back to Rhaegar’s prophecy in her visions. The dragon must have three heads...but one of her dragons were lost. She only had two. There was only one person she’d trust on his back, she realized. The man who gave her the North, the one who bent.

The only person in Westeros who seemed as special as she was. 

“I’m happy you like spending time with him,” Daenerys finally said. It wouldn’t do to scare Jon off, not before she’d talked to her advisors. That’s what she’d do, she thought. She’d bring it up when she would meet with them this afternoon. 

Maybe they could be wed before the war even began, she thought, heart racing. 

“I’m happy it pleases you, your Grace,” Jon said, finally meeting her eyes. He was not smiling, but he rarely did, she thought. 

“I was also wondering if you would like to meet with my family tonight. My siblings and I have something to tell you,” Jon added. A tight smile crossed his face. He always smiled so reluctantly. 

But a large one broke out across her face. An apology! It must be. Jon’s sisters and she still had a chance, she thought. She could still have her dream. Maybe she’d even be able to talk to Jon’s silent brother, as well. She needed a new family. Especially if Missandei was planning on leaving her. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Dany said, a smile still across her face. “I shall meet you in your rooms.” 

Jon gave her a sort of half bow, before passing her on his way back to the castle. He must have woken up very early to get to her dragons before she had. She imagined Jon lying in bed, thinking of her dragons, as she ran her hands down Drogon’s face. 

It excited her, she realized. Finally, a man who could understand how important her dragons were, who did not see them as a threat, as Tyrion did. Even Ser Jorah was frightened of them. Not Jon, she thought happily. 

She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Missandei approach. “Was that Jon?” she asked gently. 

Dany nodded. “Yes, he wanted to see the dragons again.” She found she didn’t want to explain more. She didn’t need to let Missandei in anymore if she was just going to leave her. Despite their conversation, she could still feel the hurt in her chest at the idea of being abandoned by her closest friend. But now, she was going to have the Starks, all of them. She would not be alone, she reassured herself, thinking of Jon, and his family at his side. Missandei could go if she wanted. Dany found she did not care. 

They left the dragons sleeping after Dany was content they’d had enough food the day before. She would send more Dothraki with another pair of sheep later, she thought, listening to Missandei talk about her experiences in Winterfell. 

“I was able to speak to Jon’s sister,” she said. Daenerys found herself drawn back into the conversation. 

“Which one?” 

“Sansa, the elder. We spoke at a knitting circle. The Northern Ladies are still knitting more clothing for the war to come,” Missanedi explained. 

“What was she like?” Dany asked. She hadn’t found Sansa anything but unreachable in the few meetings they’d had previously. 

“She was kind,” Missandei said. “She was curious about where I was from, and how I came to travel with you. She was very good at needlework. I was surprised. I did not think ladies did such work.” 

Daenerys did not either. She’d been given some education in writing, sums, and history, but none in skills such as needlework. Maybe if she’d grown up in Westeros, as the princess she was supposed to be, Dany thought bitterly, she would have skills that dwarfed even Sansa Stark.

“I am happy you enjoyed her company,” Dany said, trying to get back to the topic at hand. “I am to spend time with Jon and all of his siblings later today, and I am excited for the opportunity.” 

“That’s wonderful, your Grace,” Missandei said, smiling at her. Dany smiled back. It was a good start, she thought. First, she would conquer the Starks, then the North, then the rest of her birthright. 

It was her destiny.

The rest of the walk back was filled with mindless chatter until Dany left Missandei at her tent. She went inside the castle walls, knowing she would need to meet Tyrion, Varys, and Ser Jorah for a meal. 

The sun was high in the sky, and no snow seemed to be falling today. The cold air seemed still in the sunlight, making the entire castle look like it was sparkling. Dany felt bewitched by the castle. It was not as grand as King’s Landing, or even Dragonstone, but the snow made Winterfell look like it came right out of a story. 

She entered the building, sad to be away from the light, but very happy to enter the warmth. She walked through the busy halls, nodding at those who bowed slightly to her as she passed. Most were her own soldiers, but there were a few others as well, she noted, pleased. 

Her chambers were the largest guest rooms in the castle. Not as grand as the Lord’s chambers, she assumed, but she did not wish to impede on Jon’s space. Maybe she would now, she thought, thinking of him petting Rhaegal. Maybe tonight, she thought excitedly. It had been too long since their night on the boat. 

She entered her rooms, and found Tyrion, Lord Varys, and Jorah all sitting at her small table. There were a pair of servants present as well, putting out fresh bottles of wine. Food had already been served, but not one of them had eaten yet, she thought, pleased. 

She nodded as they rose, waiting for her to sit. She sat in the chair nearest to the fire, enjoying the heat of the flames, and motioned for them to join her. All four of them filled their plates, with loaves of bread, cheeses, and a few pieces of fruit. Before Dany got to enjoy, Tyrion spoke up. 

“How are your dragons, your Grace?” 

“Well,” Dany said, looking at him. “I met Jon there,” she added, deciding to get right to the point. “I took him riding on Rhaegal the day we arrived, and he said he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him,” Dany smiled smugly as she took a bite of bread. 

“And you’re pleased with that?” Tyrion asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Very pleased. We’re to meet tonight, us and his siblings,” she said after chewing. 

“He’s not too little for you anymore?” 

Dany gave him a dark look. “No, he’s not.” 

“I’ll cut right to point, your Grace,” Varys said, interrupting. “Do you wish to marry him?” 

Dany’s face reddened. She forced it away. She was a queen, not a blushing maid thinking of a man for the first time. “It would be a wise political decision, would it not?” 

“It would do better to marry someone who we do not yet have an alliance with yet,” Varys said, reaching for the new bottle of wine, just delivered by a serving girl with long brown hair. “Someone from the Vale, or the Riverlands.” 

Dany frowned. “But this would cement our alliance with the North. Tie us together through marriage. It was a Stark and Targaryen who started all this violence, and it could be a Stark and Targaryen to end it.” 

“We can consider it, your Grace,” Varys allowed. Dany let that stand for now. It was good enough. After they defeated Jon’s enemy, and went South and destroyed the Lannisters together, Varys and Tyrion would have no choice but to accept her choice. 

She was the queen, after all. 

Tyrion cleared his throat, and Dany looked back at him. She hadn’t been pleased with him for a long time, she thought. Watching him standing there, defending his brother, had almost been too much. But she still needed him, she thought reluctantly. He understood the people of Westeros in a way Dany still didn’t. Dany just wished the Tyrion in front of her was still the man she’d met in Meereen, confident and prepared to win back the Iron Throne with any means necessary. Now he was cowed, overly concerned with his siblings, instead of her birthright. 

Tyrion interrupted her thoughts. “We still need to discuss what you plan to do with the great houses of Westeros after we win the war.” 

“Which ones?” she asked, already bored with this topic. 

“The Stormlands, first off. Traditionally ruled by the Baratheons, but there are not true born Baratheons left. Robert no doubt left bastards all across Westeros, and if we could find one-” 

“And put the son of the usurper back in a castle, ready to oppose my every move? I don’t think so,” she would not bend to those who had hurt her family. 

“I doubt any of the bastards have even met Robert,” Varys said. “He never paid the majority of them any attention.” 

“Do you know of a few?” Dany asked, looking back at him. Varys nodded. 

“Good. I'll let you know when I wanted them all killed,” 

“Your Grace!” Jorah said sharply. 

She looked at her bear. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet, she thought. No doubt hurt by her idea of marriage. 

“No order yet,” she said. Jorah always had the ability to remind her of the girl she used to be, soft and gentle. “But I am a queen. And I will do what is necessary to secure my throne.” 

Jorah backed down, his eyes looking downward. Dany wished she had the time to make him smile at her again, but Tyrion continued on. 

“But who will take House Baratheon’s place?” Tyrion asked. “There are no other great houses in the Stormlands. And if you legitimize one of these bastards, they would be loyal to you, your Grace. No hint of disloyalty.” 

Dany went quiet for a moment. That could work. If she could ensure this person’s loyalty, if they would accept her as queen, and be grateful to the person who elevated them, it could work. 

“Perhaps,” she said, not wanting Tyrion to know she agreed with him. 

“We also need to think of Dorne,” Tyrion said, launching right into the next topic. He hadn’t even stopped for a sip of wine. 

“Ellaria and her daughter are beyond our help now,” Dany regretted how her alliance had ended, but she was not willing to sacrifice her forces to save them. If they were still alive when she took King’s Landing, she’d offer all the apologies that were necessary. 

“No, not them. There is a third Martell child, who lives with her mother in Norvos. She is called Arianne. Her father passed up her birthright, and she fled Westeros in response. I suggest we get in contact with her, offer an alliance,” Tyrion explained, looking up at her pleading eyes.

He wanted a win, Daenerys realized. He needed some sort of validation that his opinions still mattered to her. 

“Write to her,” Dany said, absentmindedly, as if it did not matter at all. “Invite her to Winterfell, if she can find forces to back her in Dorne.”

“Of course, your Grace,” Tyrion said, and his face lost some of the tension that had been present throughout the meal. 

They sat in silence and ate. Daenerys tried the fruit, some sort of berry, and thought longingly for her lemon tree outside her window when she was a child. Lemons were no doubtingly uncommon in the North. She wondered if any of the Starks had even seen one. 

“We should discuss a few of the other realms as well,” Varys said, setting down his own glass of wine. 

“What’s left?” Daenerys asked, turning her attention to Varys. He had been very absent their entire time in Winterfell. She wondering what he was plotting against her. 

“The Vale is relatively secure under Littlefinger and the Arryn boy,” Varys began, placing his hands on top of each other. 

Before he could continue, Dany cut in. “Who is this Littlefinger?” she demanded. “You’ve spoken of him several times, yet I’ve never met him.”

“His full name is Petyr Baelish. He was a part of Robert’s court,” Varys said. “He stole Sansa Stark out of King’s Landing and brought her North. He’s the Lord Protector of the Vale now, and he is here representing the Knights of the Vale.” 

“But where is he?” Dany repeated.

“I’ve only seen him once in passing,” Varys admitted. “I’ve been attempting to set up a meeting, but he continues to elude me. He seems to have become even more slippery since coming North.” 

“See what he knows about Sansa Stark,” Daenerys demanded. “I want to know his loyalties, to see if he will remain loyal to the throne.” 

“Of course, your Grace, “ Varys said. “Robin Arryn, the son of Jon Arryn, is the Starks’ cousin, as well. They have a number of connections to the Starks, as well as the most well-rested army in the realm.” 

So they were dangerous, Dany realized. 

Varys continued, saying “The Riverlands are controlled by the Starks’ uncle, Edmure Tully. He might follow them, in an independence attempt. He followed their brother, Robb Stark, when he proclaimed himself King in the North. He is not that intelligent, your Grace, but he is very stubborn.” 

Wonderful, Daenerys thought. More Stark loyalists. 

“The Westerlands are uncontrolled, essentially, with the Lannister forces either marching north or in the capital.” Varys glanced at Tyrion, and asked, “I assume you would like to say something here.” 

“Yes,” Tyrion met Dany’s eyes again. “I know you have been upset with me. But I was hoping, that either I or Jaime would be able to control Casterly Rock again, keep in within the family.” 

Daenerys laughed. The idea of her allowing Tyrion, who had disappointed her continually, or Jaime Lannister, who had stabbed her father in her back, not only their lives, but also the richest castle in Westeros? It seemed almost humorous. But as she calmed down, she realized Tyrion was serious. 

“You are serious?” she asked, eyebrows rising. 

Tyrion nodded, his face falling. 

Daenerys considered her options. She didn’t need Tyrion turning on her, but she doubted she’d ever change her mind on this front. “I will consider it,” she allowed, looking back at him. His face broke with relief.

Varys clearly his throat, and tried to move the conversation along.”And the Reach is unruled, with the deaths of the Tyrells and Lord Tarly.” 

“He had a family, did he not?” Dany asked, thinking of her conversation with Samwell in the library. 

“He has one remaining son, Samwell, who is sworn to both the Night’s Watch and the Maesters. He has a daughter as well. She would be his heir,” Varys went silent for a moment. “We could award her the Reach, if we insist she does not take up arms against you in the name of revenge for her father and brother.” 

“That may work,” Daenerys said, thinking. She did not know many of the families in Westeros besides the largest houses, many who worked against her family with the usurper. If she knew more, she might have been able to suggest others, more loyal to the Targaryens. Instead, she was left relying on Tyrion and Varys, neither of whom she trusted. Not anymore. 

“And lastly, there are the Iron Islands,” Varys said, placing his wine cup down. “Lady Asha wishes to rule them now, but I have heard talk amongst those who came with Theon Greyjoy that they are more loyal to him.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” Dany thought back to the two Greyjoys. Asha seemed much more capable than her brother. 

“He saved her from their Uncle,” Varys pointed out. “And these men followed him North for a reason. He was the Starks’ ward in his youth, and his loyalties seem to continue to be with them.” 

Dany’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t want to think about a North with power at the sea as well. But this was all but speculation. “We will address that issue when it comes to it,” she decided. There was no objection from the others, which meant she was right. Asha was capable and a good leader, Dany thought. No one would want to go against her. She was special, the first female leader of the Iron Born. That had to count for something. 

Dany changed the subject herself, not wanting to get lost in her thoughts. “All that is left is the North,” she said, looking at all three of them. “Do you think it is secure?” 

“With Jon Snow’s word, I do not think we need to worry,” Varys said, moving for his wine again. “Starks are loyal to the death. Honor means everything to them.” 

“Jon will not betray you,” Tyrion said, agreeing with Varys. “He would not do that, and he is the eldest Stark, the others will follow him, even if Sansa disagrees now.” 

“They are right, your Grace,” Jorah said, finally speaking up again. “The Starks have a strict moral code, and Jon Snow reminds me very much of his father. He would not dishonor you, of this I am sure.” 

Dany’s heart lightened. At least she’d have the Starks, she reminded herself. They would only have to convince those who followed them, as well. If it was not for Jon’s loyalty, she’d be more concerned with the forces they have behind them, she thought. 

“I’ll let you know how the meeting goes tonight,” she finally said. “Carry out the plans we already made.” She stood, suddenly feeling exhausted. Playing politics was exhausting. It was not what she wanted to do as a queen. 

The others stood with her. They all watched her leave the room. Daenerys instead found herself wandering the castle, lost in her thoughts. Westeros was to be hers, she realized. But she had never stopped and let herself think about what that meant. What was she to do when the wars were over? Was the meeting a glimpse of the future, of her playing politics with lives? Dany wasn’t sure if she liked the idea. She ended up in a hallway she’d never been before, full of tapestries and long windows. It was empty, making it even more unnerving. 

“Hello?” she called. She was on the side of the castle near the broken tower. The window closest to her showed the broken tower which her dragons loved to fly around. She could see them both in the distance, soaring through the air. She wished she could be out there as well, riding Drogon, without a care in the world. 

She turned from the window and jumped as she saw a man just feet away from her. 

“So sorry, your Grace,” he said, in a voice that was as smooth as a flowing river. He was a small man, with a pointed beard. He was dressed in a long grey cloak, which covered nicely tailored clothes underneath. She’d never seen him before. 

“Are you are?” Daenerys asked, giving no quarter to this man who already knew who she was. 

“Petry Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Protector of the Vale, your Grace,” he said with a little bow. 

So this was the famous Littlefinger. “I’ve heard much about you,” she said looking him right in the eye. “But you have not been present at the feasts.” 

“No your Grace. I am often not at Winterfell at all, instead riding back and forth to the Vale, treating with young Robin Arryn,” he replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

“Lord Varys has been attempting to set up a meeting with you,” Dany said, deciding to side with Varys. This man seemed slippery, she thought. 

“I have heard so, your Grace. But I must admit Lord Varys and I parted under less than ideal terms. I must admit I do not find him trustworthy enough, and had hoped to speak directly to you,” Lord Baelish informed her, stepping closer. He was barely taller than her, but he moved in a manner that unnerved her. He felt too familiar. 

“And why would you want that?” she asked, trying to stand as tall as she could. 

“Because I fear for your position, both here and in Westeros itself,” the man tilted his head slightly. “You have many enemies, your Grace. More than you can know. If you want to take your throne, regain your family’s honor, you must think outside the limits imposed on you by your advisors.” Dany’s heart beat quickly. How did he know about their disagreements? 

“And you suggest you know better?” Dany said forcefully, her eyes narrowed. 

“I would not think so, your Grace. I would just suggest you listen to yourself when it comes to large decisions. You may be surprised by your own wisdom.” Lord Baelish bowed in her direction, far deeper than Jon’s out on the hills. Dany nodded her head at him, and watched him walk away. 

Trust her own judgment. She was not often told that, she thought. Time and time again, her advisors begged her to listen to them, for her own good, for the good of the realm. But maybe this mysterious Lord Baelish was right. She’d have her meeting with the Starks tonight, and then make her own decisions.

She was the queen, after all. 

The rest of the day passed slowly. She spent a number of hours wandering the castle, before retiring to her rooms. Dany ordered a bath be drawn, and she spent an hour under the water. She ate food delivered to her rooms, as her handmaidens braided her hair in the Dothraki fashion. 

She chose her white fox fur dress for the meeting with the Starks. She’d been sure the dress would help her connect with the Starks. She’d chosen one of their colors, in their style. But instead, it had only made her stand out. Maybe tonight would change, Dany thought. Tonight they’d all see how well she meant, how she would be able to help them. They’d embrace her, Dany decided. They would see that being her family would be the best choice they could make. 

She sat looking out her window, looking at the clear sky. The castle yards were full, with incoming soldiers from the Riverlands. Dany could see her dragons in the distance, and they filled her with confidence. She could do this. Tonight, she’d have a family again. 

Dany left her rooms, a pair of Unsullied guards following her. She headed for the Lord’s chambers, which had been pointed out to her by Jorah a few days past. She was surprised that there were no guards at the doors. She knocked, trying to control the nerves in her chest. 

The door was opened by a maid, a Northern girl with long dark hair. She looked confused. “Your Grace, Lady Stark is not here at the moment. I believe she is waiting for you in Lord Snow’s chambers.” She gestured to the left, suggesting they were the room right next door. 

Sansa lived in the Lord’s chambers? Dany was confused. Jon had been king when he had left Winterfell. Had his sister decided they were hers now, after he’d left? And she hadn’t given them back when he’d returned? The maid shut the door before Dany could vocalize any of her thoughts, leaving her gaping like a fish. 

She composed herself and walked to the next door, where two guards stood. It was the Lady Brienne, and next to her stood a young man Dany had glimpsed with her several times. She nodded at them both as they bowed their heads. “I’m here to see the Starks,” she said, trying to forget her confusion from a moment ago. 

“Yes, your Grace, you are expected. Go right in,” Lady Brienne motioned to the door. Dany pushed it open. The four Starks surrounded the fire. Closest to the door was Brandon Stark, the youngest. Tyrion had told her how he’d been crippled as a boy, falling from a tower. He was quiet, speaking only in cryptic lines that seemed to unnerve everyone around him. He had gone through something tragic up North, beyond the Wall, according to Varys. It had made him this way, different and special. Dany had seen him most often with his older sister, Lady Arya. She was standing next to him now.

Lady Arya was quite small. She had Jon’s coloring, as did Brandon. She looked fierce, with a small rapier and dagger attached to each side of her waist. Dany had never heard her speak. Varys had said she’d been South with her sister when their father had been executed, but she’d disappeared for several years after. No one had known she was alive. Dany wanted to hear her stories, to see how she’d survived. They might have a knack for survival in common. 

Jon was on her other side. He was seated on a hard wooden chair. Nothing in the North seemed comfortable or desirable to Dany. Still, he had often spoke to her about how much he wanted to come home. He looked in his element here, amongst his siblings. He looked more at peace than Daenerys had ever seen. His siblings all matched him aesthetically, all in fur and dark colors. He matched them, looked as if he was one of them. Tyrion had told her how the bastard of Winterfell had stood out from his siblings when they’d first met, but Dany didn’t see that here. He seemed to be another of the family, no different than the other Starks. 

Lady Sansa sat on the end, in another wooden chair. She was the one that stood out, but she still matched the others. She was the tallest, and her hair matched the fire behind them. A part was braided, but the majority was flowing behind her. She was beautiful, Dany thought. Her dark furs and dress only made her hair and pale skin stand out more. She looked different than her siblings, but still was similar enough to belong with them. She was like her dragons, Dany thought. Different colors, yet the same fierce beasts all the same. Sansa's fierce face matched the others, and she seemed just as distant and cold as the rest of the North. 

“Good evening,” Dany began. She wanted them. She wanted all four of them to believe in her, to follow her. She just wasn’t sure how to do it. They were all special, as she was. But how to make them see that meant they were destined to follow her? How could she make them see that sitting on the Iron Throne was her destiny? Dany knew she would be the queen Westeros needed. She just didn’t know how to convince the Starks of that fact. 

“Your Grace,” Lady Sansa said, bowing her head slightly. The others remained silent. 

“Jon told me you wished for us to speak,” Dany prompted, trying to understand why they all remained so aloof. 

“Yes,” Jon started, “I did. We need to tell you something.” Emotion slipped through his mask, for once. He looked nervous, his eyes darting back and forth. Dany felt an ache in her heart. This couldn’t be good. She had come in expecting to be embraced by the Starks, finally at home in Westeros. Instead, she felt more distant from them than ever. 

“Samwell Tarly was my brother in the Night’s Watch,” Jon began. Dany knew this. She’d met the man, tried to feel remorseful for what she’d done. But it was hard. She was to be a queen, and queens could not afford to be gentle in war. “He was in Oldtown, training to be a Maester, when he found some documents. Of a marriage and a birth.” 

Jon went silent for a moment. Dany didn’t know what to say. What did this have to do with her? 

“You know that our Aunt Lyanna was abducted by your brother?” Sansa asked, continuing where Jon left off. 

“I have heard a number of differing stories about Rhaegar did,” Dany said, not wanting to villainize her brother. She had never met him, to be sure, but he was still her brother. One that had not disappointed her completely, as Viserys had. 

“Well, Sam found documents which showed they married, under the seven,” Jon explained. Dany froze. Marriage? 

“What does that matter?” she asked flippantly. “They are both long dead.” 

Jon flinched. Sansa placed her hand on his arm. Dany’s eyes narrowed. She thought about Sansa in the Lord’s Chambers, Sansa hugging Jon in the castle yards, Jon supporting Sansa’s decisions over hers. What was this? 

“It matters, your Grace, because they had a baby,” a new voice hissed. Dany turned to look at Arya. Her face was tight, and she looked unhappy. A baby? That baby would have been an heir to the throne if it had lived. 

“That’s tragic,” Daenerys said, turning to walk towards the window. She could still see her dragons, lit by the moonlight. “All this to tell me I would have another nephew if the babe had lived?” 

“Your Grace, the babe did live,” Brandon said, speaking for the first time. “He lives, and has a better claim to the throne than you do.” 

Dany turned, mouth wide, but she saw the other Starks shoot Brandon a look. She looked right at him. “And where is this new dragon hiding, may I ask? In Dorne? Also in Essos?” 

“No,” Brandon met her eyes, face blank. “Under the snow.” 

Snow? In the North? Dany looked at the others. Arya’s face was hard again, while Sansa’s was unreadable. Jon was looking at the ground, eyes heavy. 

“Under the snow,” she repeated, looking at him. The bastard name for northern babies was Snow. Jon was able to fly Rhaegal, had bonded with him. Dany had felt instantly drawn to him. 

It was Jon. 

Jon was the heir to the iron throne, the person who could take away all she had worked so hard for. She could feel her face tense, eyes narrow. Somewhere in the distance, Drogon screamed. 

Jon had the North, she thought, still staring at him. He had the North, and through his siblings- cousins, she corrected herself- he would have the Vale and the Riverlands. The Iron Islands could be loyal to him, under Theon Greyjoy, Jon’s foster brother. He could control half of her kingdom, without even lifting a finger. 

She needed to tell her advisors. Tyrion, Varys, Jorah, they needed to know about this. But what would they do? She wondered. Would they even give her helpful advice, or would she find Varys and Tyrion working for the Starks instead of her? No, she couldn’t trust anyone with this secret. She thought back to Littlefinger. He had warned her, she realized. He had been right. She could only trust herself. But what if the Starks let the secret slip?

Daenerys forced her eyes back to all four Starks. “Do not speak a word of this to anyone else,” she demanded. Arya opened her mouth, and Daenerys turned to look at her harshly. “No one. It does not leave this room until I, your queen, allow it to.” 

Daenerys turned on her heel and left the room, feeling as if she was the storm her name had bore since her birth. She was a storm dragon, raging long into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany's complicated, and I hope I was able to get that across here. I didn't tag this fic as Dark Daenerys Targaryen, because I think she's more complicated than that. Next chapter, we'll get back to Jon, see what's going on in his head. Thank you all for the support xx


	6. Jon Snow II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gives some hugs. Bran remains cryptic. The Long Night approaches.

The moment Daenerys fled from the room, Jon let out a sigh of relief. He put his head in his hands. It hadn’t gone well, but at least she knew the truth now. He didn’t have to carry it around with him anymore. 

The last week had him on edge, constantly avoiding her in the hallways. His only interaction with her had been this morning when he had gone to see Rhaegal. He did find himself drawn to the dragon, but it wasn’t as strong as the bond he had with Ghost. Ghost would always be a piece of him, just as he was a piece of Ghost. Rhaegal felt different, more like a new limb that Jon wasn’t sure if he wanted yet. 

He heard Sansa stand and cross the room to stand in front of Bran. “I thought we agreed not to emphasis Jon’s claim?” 

Jon glanced up in time to see a hint of guilt cross Bran’s face. “I know we agreed on that, but she needs to know. She won’t tell anyone, not after her discussion with Arya. Now we just wait for her to process the truth,” Bran finished, looking back at Jon, emotion sliding from his face. Jon missed his younger brother, the one who was always smiling, bringing joy to everyone who talked to him. Sometimes Jon could see a hint of that boy on Bran’s adult face, but he wished he knew how to keep him there. 

“My Littlefinger impression was fairly good,” Arya said, leaning against Bran’s chair. Her smirk disappeared when Sansa turned her attention to her. 

“What exactly did you say to her?” They hadn’t discussed it when they’d all arrived, all nervous that Daenerys would arrive early and overhear them. 

“What we discussed,” Arya said, looking more serious. “I told her to trust in her instincts, to keep her away from telling anyone else. I tried to be as dramatic as possible, as you told me to be,” she added, looking up at Sansa. 

“She still was really upset,” Jon muttered. He didn’t have the best opinion of his Aunt, especially after his experience at Dragonstone, but he didn’t want to be a person who celebrated the pain of others. 

“I know, Jon,” Sansa said, turning back to him. “But hopefully upset in a way that she’ll think through her actions, before doing anything else.” 

“Hopefully we won’t have to bring the secret up again, at least until the end of the war,” Bran said solemnly. 

Jon looked back at him. “What do I do if it comes to that?” 

“Tell her you don’t want the Iron Throne. Emphasize that. I know I told her about your claim, but she needs to think that she has competition. It should lead her to make wiser choices,” Bran explained, shadows from the fire dancing across his face. 

“I hope so,” Sansa muttered. “After the war, we can set out our terms, so we can keep the North.” 

“But first we have to defeat the Others,” Jon groaned, thinking of the long battles ahead. He had spent most of the last few days planning with the commanders of the other armies. It was a long process, but they had started sending out Northmen and Free Folk to what would become their battlefield. Jon had put off leaving for several days now, worried about leaving his family alone. 

“With the Tullys here, will you leave tomorrow?” Sansa asked, getting back to the topic at hand. She was always good at that, Jon thought. Always reading his mind. 

“Aye,” he said, standing as well. “We need to make sure the front lines are prepared. I’ll leave tomorrow with Tormund and the others.” The decision didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t want to leave them again, especially with Daenerys and her advisors afoot. But there was still a war to be fought. It was the entire reason he had dragged them all North. He couldn’t back down from it now. 

Sansa nodded and started to pace the room. “If you leave now, Arya should stay. At least until she can have a conversation with Varys and Tyrion. We’ll wait until Daenerys leaves to fight with you, just so we can be sure she won’t overhear.” 

“What’s Arya going to tell them?” Jon asked, glancing at his younger sister, still leaning against Bran’s chair. 

“Several things,” Sansa said, turning back to face him. “First, that Littlefinger’s been impressed with the work we’ve done in the North. Second, that he thinks Daenerys could be a good queen, if she is controlled. And lastly, that one person in one chair is not the only way Westeros can be ruled.”

“And then Littlefinger’ll ride off, never to be seen again,” Arya interjected, eyes hooded and looking at the ground. 

“And you can go fight in the war,” Sansa added gently. Arya looked back up at her and smiled tightly. 

“Thank you, Sansa.” 

Sansa nodded, but Jon could see the worry in her eyes. “Is there anything else we need to discuss?” 

Arya perked up. “Yes, there’s something I forgot. When I was wearing that face in Daenerys’ meeting, they were talking about Baratheon bastards. Gendry could be at risk,” she explained, worry showing on her face. 

“Killing them would make sense for an insecure ruler, worried about usurpers,” Sansa said, resuming her pacing. “But Jon will seem like the bigger threat, at least in her mind. I doubt she’ll think about it seriously, especially now with Jon as an issue” she stopped and looked at Arya. “You could mention it to Varys, as Littlefinger. Just to be safe.” 

Arya nodded. “I will.” She looked at all three of them. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to bed if you need me. Bran, do you want to go to your room?” 

“Yes, I would appreciate that,” Bran replied, still looking solemn. Arya first walked to hug Sansa, barely coming up to her shoulder. Then she came for Jon. He swept her in his arms. “Have a good night, little sister,” he whispered. She squeezed back. 

“Goodnight,” she called, as she stepped away and wheeled Bran out of the room. 

It was just them now. 

“Are you going to bed as well?” Sansa asked, looking back at him. 

“Aye, I should,” Jon said, thinking of the long day he had ahead of him. He looked up at her, heart racing. With the threat of war looming over them, he wasn’t sure if he’d have another night with her. He didn’t know if this was wise, but he let the words in his head fly out of his mouth. “You could stay, if you want.” 

Sansa’s eyes widened as she processed what he was asking. “Jon, I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” she admitted, a blush covering her cheeks. 

“No!” he rushed out. “I just meant to sleep, that’s all.” He wanted to hold her tight, let her feel safe in his arms. Let himself feel safe in her arms.

“People could talk,” Sansa whispered. Always worried about the game, Jon thought fondly. Always three steps ahead, protecting their pack. 

“We’ll get up early, before anyone else in the castle. I promise,” Jon said reaching for her hands. They were warm underneath his palms. 

She nodded, a fierce look appearing in her eyes. “Let me tell Brienne I plan to stay,” she said softly, pulling her hands from his. 

When they’d gotten back to Winterfell, Jon had insisted on Sansa taking the Lord’s chambers. He hadn’t thought he would be able to sleep in the bed that Lady Catelyn and his father had, once. Instead, he’d taken Robb’s chambers, right next door. He could have gone back to his old chambers, but he wanted to be near Sansa, especially when Littlefinger had still slithered through these walls. 

Robb’s chambers were larger than his childhood rooms. But they still felt cozy, with the warmth of the fireplace wrapped around them. He moved to take off his cloak. It was the one Sansa had made him, the cloak that had marked him as a Northerner on his journeys in the South. He placed it carefully on one of the chairs and started reaching for his gorget. He heard the door shut softly, and turned to see Sansa, her cheeks red from the cold. 

“Brienne says she’ll keep watch.” 

Jon nodded, struggling with the latches on his armor. “Sounds good.” Sansa stepped forward and helped unlatch the gorget. “There you go,” she said softly. Jon looked at her and his heart ached. He imagined doing this every night with her, having her there with him for the rest of his life. 

He ached for it. 

Jon cleared his throat, and pulled away from her. He reached down to remove his boots. For all her planning, Sansa hadn’t mentioned the possibility of them. Could it be possible? He wondered, pulling off his first boot. He didn’t dare hope. 

As he pulled off the second, he looked up, and his eyes met Sansa’s. She had also taken off her cloak, and was trying to unlace her outer dress. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Would you mind?” she asked softly. 

Jon knew this was an important moment for her. Allowing him to unlace her, allowing him inside her amour. He wanted nothing more, he thought longingly. 

He stepped towards Sansa and slid his fingers through the laces. They were made of firm leather, keeping her laced up and warm during the harsh winter. He pulled gently, releasing her from the bonds she had made. Jon heard her sigh deeply as he pulled them loose. Her dress pulled off her, the dark fabric pooling towards the floor. She was in a simple shift underneath, a creamy white color that still looked darker than her pale skin. 

Jon helped her step out of the dress, and tried to keep his hands from wandering. She was trusting him here, he thought, and it would do no good to break her trust.

She turned to look at him. “Are you sleeping in all that?” she said softly, teasing, as her hands went to undo the braids on top. Her red hair fell around her face, framing it and making her look even lovelier. 

Jon chuckled, and reached to take off his outer layer of clothing as well. He had a thick leather shirt which he pulled over his head, leaving him a soft shirt and his pants. He met her eyes as he placed them next to his cloak. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning to the bed. 

They both walked gently, as if afraid to break the softness of the moment between them. Before Jon could reach for the fur on the bed to pull it back, the door opened. 

They both jumped, turning to look at the door. It closed moments after opening, and Jon was relieved to see it was just Ghost. “Ghost!” he called happily. He had been hunting for the last few days, and Jon hadn’t had many chances to see him. 

The big white direwolf bounded over and nuzzled his head against Jon’s leg. He did the same to Sansa, who tangled her hands in his fur in a practiced manner, one she’d done dozens of times since arriving at Castle Black. Ghost wiggled out of their grasps, however, and leaped onto the bed. He settled at the foot, and turned to look at them both expectantly. 

Jon laughed, breaking the moment. Sansa did as well, reaching for his arm to steady herself. “I think he wants us to join him,” Sansa gasped between her giggles. 

“Aye,” Jon said, taking the initiative and climbing into the bed. Sansa joined him, and they laid next to each other, under a pile of furs and one very pleased direwolf. 

They faced each other, bracketing themselves on either side of the bed. Sansa reached for him, and they held hands, safe in their shared warmth.

“I don’t want to leave Winterfell,” Jon whispered, afraid that too much noise would shatter their peace. 

“I don’t want you to leave either,” Sansa confessed, eyes misty. Jon reached out and thumbed a tear away from her eye. “But you must.” 

They simply looked at each other for a moment, the peace too precious to break. 

“Can we do this? Can we survive all that’s come our way?” Jon whispered, the weight of the world feeling too heavy for his shoulders.

“We’ve survived so far,” Sansa pointed out softly. “We just have to keep pushing a bit longer.” 

“If we can survive the Others and the dragons, the ice and the fire, that’s it,” Jon muttered softly, still stroking her cheek. They lapsed back into silence, the pressure of what they were up against almost seeming too much to bare. Sansa broke the silence first.

“What do you really think of Daenerys?” Sansa asked. Jon paused for a moment. This wasn’t a political question, he realized. The concern in her eyes meant this was personal. 

“I think she truly thinks she’s doing the right thing,” Jon replied. “She is far removed from the people of Westeros, but she does not wish them harm.” He paused for a moment, thinking back to one of the few moments he felt concern for Dany, back in the Dragonpit. “She wants a family, more than anything. I think she thinks by taking Westeros back, it will make up for the one she lost.” 

“Will she consider you family, you think? Even if you resist her advances?” 

“I think she might,” Jon admitted. “I think that would help our cause, if she sees me as an equal, as a family member.” 

He paused for a moment, and said, “I’ll be the only one she’ll ever have.” Sansa raised her eyebrow, trying to understand. “She’s barren,” Jon explained further. “She will never have children.” 

Sansa let loose a small gasp. “Jon, that’s it! That changes everything!” 

“What’s it?” he asked, confused on how this could be that impactful.

“She wants a family. But she can’t have one, except for you. If she wants an heir, someone to carry on the Targaryen legacy, she has to rely on you.” She paused for a moment, and met his eyes. “On us.” A blush spread across her cheeks. 

Jon tried to not think of the implications. “Do you think she could accept us? Together?”

“There aren’t that many options when it comes to highborn ladies at the moment,” Sansa pointed out. “Out of all of the great houses, we are the most intact. And we are the only ones who can hold your parentage over her head.” 

“We could be together,” Jon whispered excitedly. “We could rule the North, together.” 

“Yes, we could,” Sansa whispered back, a bright smile on her face. She didn’t smile enough, Jon thought. He wanted to be the one to keep putting smiles on that face, for years to come. He let his thoughts fly freely as if he was in the air on Rhaegal. He imagined marrying Sansa underneath the Heart Tree. He imagined children, with red and dark hair, racing around the grounds. One could be called Robb, he thought. He imagined Sansa and him, in the pools in the godswood, kissing deeply, until their kisses led to something else entirely. 

All of the dreams he’d had in the years since he’d been away could be fulfilled with Sansa in the middle of them. His heart stopped as he realized she could give him the one thing he wanted more than anything.

He could be a Stark. 

After years of waiting, Sansa could give him the thing he had longed for the most. He looked at her, her eyes still alight, and he couldn’t hold himself back. He reached out for her face and kissed her.

It was softer than their kisses in the Broken Tower, but it felt stronger, as if they were learning as they were going. Her lips were soft, and Jon rubbed his hands behind her neck, trying to pull her closer. 

Sansa slipped her tongue into his mouth, and intertwined her arms between his shoulder blades. It felt right, Jon thought, exploring her heat with his mouth. Nothing had ever felt so perfect. 

They broke the kiss, both gasping for breath. Neither of them seemed willing to pull away from each other, however. They laid in each others’ arms, clinging to each other. The cold winter seemed as far away as Dorne. 

Jon reached up, and trailed his hands through Sansa’s hair. “Is that what you want?” he asked softly. “Us, together?” 

“Jon,” she whispered, eyes taking him in. “That’s the thing that’s missing. You’re the one thing I want, the one thing I never thought I could have.” 

Jon smiled, a big grin that took over his face. “Then that is what you’ll have.” 

They both curled closer to each other, the pull of sleep getting stronger. Jon was content and could feel himself slipping away, with his eyes shut, until Sansa spoke up. “Stay alive Jon Snow,” she whispered, her hand stroking down his face. She didn’t seem to realize he was still awake. “Stay alive, so you can be Jon Stark.” 

Jon drifted into sleep, Sansa’s words warming his heart just as much as Ghost warmed their feet. He was home, he thought sleepily. 

He wasn’t sure how long he slept, but the next thing he knew, Sansa was tapping his face, trying to wake him up. “I’m sorry to wake you,” she whispered, “but I need to go, and I wanted to say goodbye.” 

Jon lurched up, and kissed her again, more briefly this time. “I don’t mind being woken up for this,” he muttered. Sansa laughed again, and pulled herself from his arms. She collected her clothing, and after petting Ghost one last time, she looked up at Jon and smiled at him, as if she’d never get enough.

Jon was sure he would never tire of her face, either. 

She left the room, and Jon found himself falling back into sleep once more. The next thing he knew, he could hear the banging of the forge outside, and he jolted awake. 

He had slept in longer than he had expected, he realized, seeing the sun shining through his window. He had to hurry.

Jon dressed quickly, changing his underclothes and reattaching his gorget and cloak. He’d try to eat something from the kitchens, but he needed to get to the troops. 

He rushed through the kitchens, grabbing a few slices of bread, and ate on his way to the commander's tent. One of the Unsullied tents near the castle had been transformed into a battle planning room. The large map from the library was now out here, as well as candles and notes from troops all across the North. Jon entered quickly and saw the commanders were all present. Brienne stood for the forces here at Winterfell, Oathkeeper strong at her side. She was standing next to Jaime Lannister, who looked more rested than he had when he arrived in Winterfell. Tormund was on his other side, side-eyeing the Lannister knight. 

Across the table stood Jorah Mormont, tall and unmoving. There was a woman Jon did not know at his right side. On his left stood Grey Worm, who seemed to be shivering in the cold morning air. A pair of Dothraki riders, Aggo and Rakharo, were beside him.

The third side of the table had Lord Royce, representing the Vale, and the newly arrived Lord Edmure Tully. Lord Davos stood at his side. 

“Good morning,” Jon called, walking to stand beside Brienne. She smiled briefly at him, and turned back to the table. 

“Good for you to finally join us,” Tormund called over, smirking at him. Jon ignored him and glanced at the table. Most of the forces were going to their planned battle location, but Jon had insisted that some of the forces stay behind to guard the castle. He wanted to be sure it would be safe, in the case of any breakdowns at the front. It was to be guarded by some of the remaining Northern forces, as well as the Knights of the Vale. Lord Davos was to stay and lead these forces. 

“With the rest of the forces here, are we all ready to move out?” he asked, looking around at all of the leaders present. It seemed almost unreal, that he’d been able to do it. He had brought together people from all walks of life, different kingdoms, to fight for his cause. When he’d first fought a wight, in the Old Bear’s chambers all those years ago, he’d never expected it could come to this. But here he was, leading an army made up of Northerners and Tullys, Lannisters and Unsullied. It was almost too much to process at times. 

“Aye, my Lord,” Davos said, looking at him proudly. Davos had been with him for years, had watched him and Sansa struggle to take back their home. Jon was grateful for his support, even if his advice had been slightly less helpful in the politically complicated South. 

Jon nodded. “We should head out within the next two hours then. Try to get there long before the sun sets.” There were agreements throughout the tents. Jon was already thinking of the goodbyes he would need to make when he heard his voice called. 

He turned and saw Ser Jorah motioning him over. “Lord Snow, I want to introduce you to my cousin,” he explained, motioning to the woman next to him. 

Jon, surprised, walked over. Lyanna had another cousin? “Good morning, my Lord,” the woman said. She was tall, and looked strong. “My name is Dacey Mormont. I was with your brother at the Twins. I was held captive after the Red Wedding, and was recovering down South until I heard the Tully army planned to come help.” 

“Lyanna’s older sister?” Jon asked. He knew Lyanna had a number of sisters, though he hadn’t been entirely sure what had happened to them. 

“Aye, my Lord,” she said, smiling at the mention of her sister. “She’s been strong, being in charge of Bear Island all by herself. But I’m back now. And I’m ready to fight for the North.” 

Jon glanced at Jorah. He didn’t want the man to misinterpret their intentions. “We are lucky to have you in the War against the Dead.” Lyanna bowed her head at him in response. Jon turned to Jorah. “Thank you for introducing me,” he said, before getting to what he really needed to know. “How is the Queen this morning?” 

“She has not left her chambers,” Jorah admitted softly. He glanced around, not wanting this information to get out, Jon realized. “She told me she’d be ready when the dragons are needed, but not to be disturbed before that time.” 

Jon nodded. That was good enough, he decided. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, turning away, intending to head for Sansa in the castle. 

“My Lord!” he heard Davos call. The majority of the lords had left already, but Davos still stood next to the table. Jon headed to meet him. “I have some troubling news,” Davos muttered, leading him outside into the cold air. 

“What is it?” Jon asked. Could there really be something else? 

“The Lady Melisandre has returned to Winterfell, even after you banished her,” Davos muttered, looking around as if afraid she would burst out of nowhere. “She’s been seen in the tents with the Dothraki and Unsullied, praying to her Lord of Light.” 

Jon sighed. Melisandre may have saved his life, but her actions against Shireen Baratheon had been horrible. Unforgivable. 

“She has not entered the castle ground yet?” Jon asked, stopping to look at Davos. The Onion Knight shook his head. “Then there is nothing I can do. If she is still here at the end of the war, and we have all survived, I will do something. Make sure that gets to her,” he ordered. He would look for her himself, but he already had limited time, and he didn’t want to spend it with Melisandre. 

“Aye, my Lord,” Davos replied, and turned to leave and spread the word. 

“Wait!” Jon called after him. His former Hand turned and met his eyes. “Be safe in the wars to come,” Jon said. Davos was another friend he did not wish to lose. 

“You as well, my Lord,” Davos said, lips lifting slightly. “I am proud of you, boy,” he added. Jon felt his heart clench. He stepped closer and pulled the older man into a hug. 

“Thank you for all you’ve done for me. For my family, for Winterfell,” he said, finding his face in Davos’ shoulder. 

Davos patted him on the back, and let go, meeting his eye. “You’re one of the best men I’ve ever met, Jon Snow. Stannis saw it as well. I would follow you until the ends of the earth.” 

Jon nodded at him, unsure how to respond. How would Davos feel if he told him he was a Targaryen? That he was deceiving his people? There wasn’t time to let him in on the secret. Jon hoped he’d feel the same. “Goodbye, Ser Davos,” Jon said softly, turning to head back to the castle, the weight of his secret continuing to crush him. 

Last night, He had thought that telling Daenerys would ease this weight. He would need to tell everyone, he realized, before it would feel less like lying about his very existence. 

Jon thought back to Sansa’s plans. If they could do this correctly, everyone would know about his parentage. Would they look at him differently? Would the Northern Lords accept his rule? 

There was too much to think about. He still needed to say goodbye. Jon walked through the castle walls, and considered where to go first. He wanted to speak to Sam and Gilly, as well as his siblings-cousins. He would never get used to that, he thought. It would almost be easier to continue to call them his siblings, but that got complicated with Sansa. She was so much more, he thought, entering the castle. 

Even when they had seen each other again, Jon had not seen her as a sister. He thought back to their childhood. Had their distance led to this? He wondered. Or would these feelings always be there, no matter their experiences? 

It didn’t matter, he decided, entering the library to greet Sam. He loved her, and in the end, that was all there was. 

Sam was sitting at a table, books and scrolls spread out across the tabletop. Gilly was reading one, eyes squinting as she tried to read a sentence out loud. Little Sam was on the ground, playing with what looked like a stuffed wolf. 

“Hello,” he called, not wanting to interrupt the moment. Sam looked back, and his eyes lit up when he saw Jon. 

“Jon!” Sam stood up and bounded over to greet him. “How are you?” Sam asked, eyes telling Jon that he wanted to ask how the plan going. 

“I’m well,” Jon said, not wanting to get into the complicated reaction he had to last night’s events. “I’m to leave with the forces going north, and I wanted to say goodbye to you both before I do.” 

“Already?” Gilly asked, standing as well. “Are they this far south?” 

“They’re close,” Jon said solemnly. It was harder to track the wights through the Wolfswood, meaning they might be attacked the moment they arrive, or it may be a week or more. 

“Do you need me to come as well?” Sam asked. He’d been bringing it up every time they spoke. 

Jon shook his head. “No, you’re needed here. We have many soldiers, but few Maesters. Even half-trained ones,” he added before Sam could protest.  
Sam sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t help more.” 

“You are helping!” Jon exclaimed. “You’re saving lives, Sam. There’s nothing more important.” 

“I know,” Sam said. “It’s just hard to think about it that way.” He reached out and hugged Jon. Jon buried his face in Sam’s shoulder, as he had done to Davos just minutes ago. He didn’t want to lose him either. 

“Stay safe out there,” Sam whispered softly. “You’re the only brother I have left.” 

“I will,” Jon swore. “I promise.” Jon let go and went to hug Gilly as well. 

She hugged him gladly. “You can do it, Jon,” she encouraged him. “You’re the best fighter I’ve ever met.” 

“Thank you, Gilly,” he replied, squeezing her as he would Arya. 

He released her, and walked over to kneel by Little Sam. “Stay safe, little one,” he whispered, reaching out to touch his head. Little Sam looked up at him and waved his stuffed wolf at Jon. He smiled, thinking of the little wolves they’d found before he’d left Winterfell for the first time. 

He stood, nodded at Sam again, and left the room, before letting a few tears drop down his cheeks. The goodbyes were almost too much for him to handle. He still felt overwhelmed by the secret he had learned, and now he had to fight in yet another war. 

It seemed as if it would never end. 

He headed outside again and saw the busy training yard. He looked for Arya amongst the fighters but saw nothing but knights and free folk. He tried to think where else she could be, until he saw Podrick amongst the knights. “Podrick!” he called, trying to be heard amongst all the clashing steel. Pod headed over, sweat on his face, despite the weather. 

“Yes, my Lord?” he asked, gasping for breath. 

“Have you seen Arya?” 

Podrick nodded and gestured behind him. “She’s in the forge, my Lord.” 

Why would she be there? He wondered. He thought of her question about Gendry the night before. How did they know each other? “Thank you, Podrick,” he replied, clapping a hand on his back briefly before heading to find his sister. 

The forge was warm, with fires burning in all directions. A number of blacksmiths were still hard at work, making dragonglass weapons for the battles ahead. Jon saw Arya speaking to Gendry in the center of it all, a smile on her face. 

“Arya?” he called, walking between the fires. She looked up, an almost panicked look on her face for a moment. She turned, and her face relaxed.

“Yes, Jon?” she asked as she stepped away from Gendry and towards him.  
“I wanted to say goodbye,” he nearly shouted, trying to be heard over the clangs. 

“Hold on, one moment,” she ordered and turned back to Gendry. Jon watched her say something to him, too far away for him to pick up. Then she looked at Jon, and gestured towards the castle yards. 

Jon led her outside, and up onto the ramparts, where the noise was not so loud. “How do you know Gendry?” he asked. 

Arya bit her lip, and turned to look out at the hills. “We left King’s Landing together, after Father. We were together for a long time until a red witch took him away.” 

“A red witch?” Could it be..? 

Arya nodded, still not meeting his eye. “She needed him for his king’s blood. She told me she’d see me again, one day.” 

“Do you know her name?” he asked, trying to remain casual. 

“Melisandre,” Arya admitted, turning to face him. “Sansa said she brought you back to life.” 

Jon nodded. Of course it was Melisandre. There seemed to be no coincidences in Westeros. 

“Are you leaving now?” Arya asked, getting back on topic. 

“In an hour,” Jon replied. “I need to talk to Bran and Sansa as well.” 

“Bran’s in the godswood, and Sansa’s in her solar,” Arya told him, looking down at her belt. “And before you go, I have something for you.” 

Jon turned to face her. She pulled a dagger from her belt. It was made of dragonglass. “I had Gendry make it,” she explained. “It’s a copy of the Valaryian dagger I killed Littlefinger with. I had three made, one for each of us.” 

Jon reached out and took the dagger with both hands. He smiled, thinking of the opposite scene playing out in Arya’s chambers all those years ago. “And now you’re giving me weapons,” he joked weakly. 

“I can think of no better present,” Arya said, as serious as ever. 

Jon tucked it along his waist, next to Longclaw. “I will use it well,” he swore. The next thing he knew, she had jumped into his arms. 

He squeezed her gently. She might have been a woman grown, but she still felt so small in his arms. It was a surprise every time, as if he allowed his memories to build her up much larger than she was. 

“Be careful until I get out there,” she whispered, hands in his furs. 

“I will,” he whispered back. “Stay safe here, with Tyrion and Varys.” 

She nodded in his shoulder, and he set her down. Before she left, he asked, “Do I need to ask about Gendry and you?” 

She turned away, and called back, “My business, Jon. Not yours!” 

Jon laughed, knowing Arya could take care of herself. 

He watched her climb down the stairs and return to the forge. A Stark and a Baratheon, he thought musingly. He thought of his mother, who Arya had always been told she resembled, and Robert Baratheon, who his mother was supposed to marry. Instead, she had married his father, a Stark girl for a Targaryen prince. Just as he and Sansa. Fate was funny, sometimes, he mused. 

Jon stood for a moment, deciding who to see next. Bran was closer, he decided, and he followed the path Arya had taken down the stairs. He dodged an icy puddle, one that seemed to never fade away, and entered the gates of the Godswood. 

There was small folk throughout the weirwoods, praying. Children were rushing about, snow up to the knees of some of the smaller ones. Jon saw Bran sitting in his normal spot under the Heart Tree. He walked and sat by his side, waiting for Bran to rejoin the present.

It was only a few moments later Bran gasped and was back with him. “Hello Jon,” Bran greeted him. 

“I have to leave soon,” Jon told his younger brother. At least he was able to say goodbye to him this time.  
It wasn’t as painful as it was with Bran unconscious in his bed.

“I know,” Bran replied, looking past him into the trees. “I am still looking into the past, trying to decide what path we should take.” 

“Should we be going at all?” Jon asked. He hadn’t thought to ask Bran, but his magic had a unique perspective. 

“I believe so,” Bran said, looking up at the sky. “We need to draw a line as far from the castle as possible. Your plan seems sound. I’m still looking for a different way to defeat the Night King, that’s all.” 

“What’s wrong with the plan you have now?” 

Bran remained silent, as if he was trying to decide how to say it. 

“Are we the ones at risk?” Jon asked. “Is it the North? Or our freedom?” 

“If we follow this path,” Bran began, “It might hurt us as a family.” 

Jon swallowed. He didn’t want to put Arya or Sansa at any more risk. “Our lives?” 

Bran shook his head. “Something else.” 

Jon didn’t know what could be worse. “Our relationships with each other?” 

Bran shook his head again. Jon sighed, exasperated with his younger brother. It seemed to kill him to give a straight answer to anything. 

“When you come back next time, I’ll tell you,” Bran said suddenly. He looked up at Jon, eyes fiercer than a moment before. “I swear it.” 

Jon nodded. “All right.” He stood, reached out and hugged his younger brother. To his surprise, Bran reached up and hugged his back with more force than he had when they’d been reunited. 

“Be safe, Jon,” Bran said softly. 

Jon pulled back from his brother, and nodded. “You as well. Take care of your sisters.” 

Bran led a small smile sneak onto his face. “I’ll try.” 

Jon’s heart ached yet again for the boy his brother had been. They would win this war, he decided. He would give his brother the childhood he had lost, as soon as the North found peace. 

“Remember to bring Ghost,” Bran called to his back. “He would be useful to pass messages between us.” 

“I will,” Jon called back. He walked back to the castle, still thinking about Bran’s vague answer. What could be worse than losing their lives? Or each other? He almost didn’t want to know.

The yards were emptying out as soldiers were preparing to leave for the front. Jon knew he had to hurry to see Sansa before they left. He rushed into the castle and up the stairs, making for her solar. 

The doors were unguarded. Jon knew both Brienne and Podrick were leaving with the rest of the forces, which would leave Sansa unguarded. Arya would be here, at least for a while, but that did not calm him. 

He knocked at the door, and heard Sansa call, “Come.” Jon stepped through and saw Sansa busy at work at her desk. There were scrolls spread out across them all, and she looked worried. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, walking towards her. He rounded the desk and looked over her shoulder to look at her ledger. 

“I’m just worrying about food, that’s all,” she said, still looking at the sums. “Without any food coming from the reach, we might have to purchase from Essos. We should have enough funds, but I’m unsure if it will get here in time.” 

“Do it,” Jon said. “Send a raven to White Habour, and we’ll deal with the cost when it comes to it.” 

Sansa looked up at him and nodded. “I’ll send it today,” she decided. “Why are you here?” 

“We’re leaving soon,” he said, confused about her question. 

Her eyes widened. “Already? I’ve completely lost track of time!” 

Jon looked at her softly. “Don’t worry about it. Everything’s running smoothly.”

“It’s these numbers,” Sansa said frustratingly. “I’m still no good at them.” 

“No good?” Jon wanted to laugh. “You’ve been managing this castle for nearly a year. I think you’re better than you think, Sansa.” 

She looked up at him. “Thank you, Jon.”

The intensity of her look had him nearly blushing. “Well, you’re always telling me how good I am at ruling. It’s time I return the favor,” he said gruffly, trying to stop his blush. 

Sansa stood and reached for his hands. “Be safe out there, alright? Come home to us. Come home to me,” she said softly. 

Jon squeezed her hands. “Aye, I will. Bran already said so.” 

Sansa smiled. “Be safe, anyway. Bran doesn’t know everything.” 

“It sure feels like it,” Jon muttered. 

He reached out and hugged her as well. He didn’t think he’d given so many hugs in his entire life. She smelt good, clean and something that was distinctly Sansa. Her hands were in his hair, clutching to him. 

He pulled back from her, but Sansa didn’t let him get far. She kissed him, quickly. It was far briefer than their kisses last night, and Jon wished he had the time to pull her closer, where she belonged. 

“I’ll be out on the ramparts, watching you leave,” she said softly, pulling back from his arms. 

“I’ll look for you,” he promised, and turned from the room before he lost the strength to leave altogether. 

He went to his chambers, and changed into the warmest clothes he owned. He made sure Longclaw was secure on one hip, and the new dagger Arya gave him was on the other. He pulled on the cloak Sansa made for him and latched it shut across his chest. Jon pulled his hair back quickly and left the room. 

Down in the castle yards, the stable boys were already preparing a number of horses. Jon saw his preferred horse, a dark stallion, amongst them. Tormund was already on a grey horse nearby. Jon approached him first. 

“Are you ready to go?” he asked his old friend. 

Tormund laughed. “Aye, little crow. I’ve been ready for this for months.” Jon smiled up at him. He was happy he would go into battle with a familiar face at his side. “You should make sure your direwolf is, though.” Tormund gestured behind him. 

Jon looked and saw Ghost following him from inside the castle. Jon knelt down to pet him as he approached. “Are you ready to fight, boy?” Ghost looked up at him, red eyes gleaming, and leaning into Jon’s hand. His heart soared. Ever time Ghost came back to him, it was validation that he was a Stark, that he belonged here. That their choices so far had been the right ones. 

Jon smiled down at Ghost, and told him, “Follow us to battle, alright boy?” Ghost licked his hand in response. 

Jon turned to his horse and mounted it. He saw others preparing to leave as well, including Brienne, Jaime Lannister, and Podrick. He looked up and back at the castle, and saw Sansa, standing in the same place she had been the last time he’d left Winterfell. He smiled sadly up at her, and lifted his hand to wave goodbye. She did the same, with a small smile gracing her lips. 

Jon turned and rode out of the castle walls. Soldiers and warriors from across Westeros and Essos were already heading out, and he could see a long procession heading north. He joined in, Tormund at his side, riding in silence until he heard someone hurrying to catch up with them. 

“Good morning, my Lord,” Jaime Lannister said as he brought his horse in line with Jon’s. Jon pursued his lips. He was tolerating Lannister here, but he didn’t like it. 

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked shortly, still facing ahead. 

“I don’t mean to pry, but I have to admit, I’m curious.” 

“About what?” Jon asked, not all that interested in what Jaime Lannister had to say. 

“I remember you as a boy, a rather sad boy, determined to join the Night’s Watch, and get as far north as possible. It was a stark comparison to your sister, who seemed quite determined to get as far south as she could. And yet you seem quite close, now,” Jaime observed. Jon froze. 

If there was any man in Westeros who knew what it was like to be in love with their sister, any man who might recognize the signs, it would be Jaime Lannister. 

And there was no way he could tell this man the truth, Jon knew. His parentage was not something that could be told lightly, especially with the importance of their plan. He decided to act oblivious. 

“A Lot has changed since then,” Jon said, still facing the lines of soldiers ahead. “We took Winterfell back, together. We’re much closer now.” 

“I can see that,” Jaime said, knowingly. 

Jon chose to ignore the implications in those words. “As I said before, can I help you?” 

“I just wanted to pass on some advice,” Jaime relented, suddenly acting serious. “There are other women in the world, Snow.” 

Jon squared his jaw. “I’ve met many of them, Kingslayer.” 

“He does like the ones kissed by fire.” Jon winced. Of course, Tormund felt the need to get involved. 

Jaime leaned over to see Tormund’s face. “What does that mean?” 

“Kissed by fire,” Tormund repeated. “Like me. Red-haired.” 

“Like your sister,” Jaime muttered. 

Jon turned to face him, deciding he’d had enough of this. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Kingslayer. But you are the only one here who has laid with their sister.” 

Jon hurried his horse ahead and heard Tormund’s laughter as he did so. He swore he heard Jaime mutter, “But not the only one who wants to.” 

Jon didn’t slow his horse until he was out of sight of the pair of them. Jaime Lannister might think he was helping, but he only increased Jon’s worries. If his secret came out, and he married Sansa, would the Northern Lords still look at them as they were wrong? Would they only be able to see the two children who had grown up together? Jon wished he’d asked Sansa about it. He was sure she would have already thought it through. He’d have to wait until he saw her again, he realized. He tried to put it out of his mind, to focus on the war that was ahead. 

The rest of the ride was peaceful. At some point, Ghost had caught up with him as well, and the two of them followed the Kingsroad in peace, snow falling again. The sun was starting to set as they left the Kingsroad, and headed east. They would camp at the site they’d already picked, just west of the White Knife and south of Long Lake. A number of troops were already there, preparing the camp and the fire wall. 

Jon let Tormund catch up with them, but continued to ride in silence. He was thinking of the battles ahead. After this war was over, he’d happily never pick up a sword again. Now, he was ready to earn his peace. 

They arrived just as the sun set. Jon dismounted his horse, and left in the hands of a squire. He led the way into the camp. There had to be hundreds of tents already set up, and they were full of soldiers, preparing for a long night ahead. 

Jon turned a corner, looking for a familiar face, and saw one at a distance. It was Edd. He was ordering a pair of Night Watch brothers around, both looking young and unsure. 

Jon rushed forward, calling out. “Edd!” 

Edd turned, and when he saw Jon what passed as a smile for the dour man appeared on his face. They rushed at each other, and hugged tightly. 

“How're the preparations coming along?” Jon asked, pulling back from the hug. 

“We’re as ready as we’re going to be,” Edd replied, looking grim. “The last few nights we’ve had wights breaking through, meaning that we’re just days away from the hoard arriving. You got here just in time.” 

Jon set his face. “We’ll be ready when they do.” Edd patted him on the back, and turned around, shouting instructions at more soldiers. 

All Jon could do for a moment was stand there. He’d done this, prepared the world as best he could. Watching people rush around, preparing for the battles ahead, filled him with confidence. This was his war, as Daenerys had always said. It was time to face it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support! xx


	7. Sansa Stark II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa remembers how young her siblings are. Littlefinger makes his final move. Nymeria and her pack arrive, along with some familiar faces.

The winds were blustering from the moment Sansa stepped outside. It was barely past dawn, and the snow had been falling thickly all night. It seemed to have snowed almost nonstop since Jon had left for Long Lake, leaving the castle covered with new layers every day. Winter had only grown worse as the war had begun, with colder temperatures and heavier winds. 

Sansa was leaving to meet Arya in the Broken Tower, to prepare her for her meeting with Tyrion and Varys. They had decided to have it early in the morning, in one of the hallways near the top of the castle, full of dark corners and tapestries Sansa could hide behind and listen in. Arya was also planning on leaving for the battle camp as soon as she was finished, not wanting to leave Jon alone in the battles any more than she already had. 

It had been a long two weeks since Jon had left, and they heard very little from the front lines. Daenerys had left a week ago, and there had been no sign of her dragons, either. The only soldiers they had seen were a few injured ones who had made their way back. Sam and Maester Wolkan had been very busy, and Sansa found her sewing ability was very helpful after surgeries. She had often been called upon to assist the more gruesome attempts. 

It felt good to be helpful, Sansa had realized. She spent most of her days looking after supplies and food, sparing a few hours to help the Maester and to sew with the remaining Northern Ladies. Her evenings were spent with her siblings, enjoying their company in a way she hadn’t been able to while Littlefinger had still walked these halls. 

She nearly slipped on the ever consistent icy puddle in the castle yards, covered with packed snow. Sansa caught herself and continued going. She glanced around, making sure no one had seen her. The yards were empty, but several soldiers were patrolling the ramparts, including, Sansa realized, Lyanna Mormont. Her newly arrived older sister had refused Lyanna’s plea to join the fighting, telling her she was needed to protect Winterfell. Sansa had seen her moping during dinner, but she did her duties nonetheless.

Sansa continued her journey, thinking about how she wished she could channel Dacey Mormont’s spirit, and demand that Arya remain in Winterfell as well. But Arya wasn’t a child, she was a woman grown, and she had spent years defending herself from men nearly as dangerous as the Others. Sansa couldn’t deny her the opportunity to use her skills, to defend her home. She only wished she could keep her here, safe, as she wished for Jon. 

The door for the Broken Tower had snow nearly halfway up the wood. Sansa pushed some aside with her feet and opened the door. It wasn’t exactly warm in the tower, but the walls were protective from the wind, which was almost enough to warm her bones. 

She climbed the stairs quickly. They had a light layer of snow, suggesting Arya was already here. Sansa tried to avoid the puddles, trying not to slip again.  
As she approached the rooms, she could hear the flickering of a fire, and smell the flames. She turned the corner, and saw her younger sister sitting on the same chair Jon had been in when he had told her his secret. “Good morning, Arya,” Sansa called, moving to sit next to her, next to the fire. 

“Morning,” her sister replied, looking down at the face on her lap. She didn’t say anything else, but continued to look lost in her thoughts. Sansa let the silence stay between them, and instead let herself enjoy the warmth of the fire. 

“I’ve been thinking about my faces,” Arya said suddenly, looking up at Sansa. “After Littlefinger, I don’t want to use them anymore.” 

Sansa kept her face controlled. “Why not?” 

Arya bit her lip, her old nervous habit. She straightened her shoulders and began. “It was something I learned when I was no one. When I wasn’t Arya Stark anymore. Whenever I use it, it makes me think about how lost I was, how alone. You were stuck in King’s Landing, Jon was at the Wall, Bran and Rickon in Winterfell, Mother and Robb in the Riverlands, and Father was dead. I had no one, especially after Gendry was sold to the red witch.” She paused and looked away from Sansa. 

“It makes me feel like I have no home, no pack.” 

Sansa moved to place her hands on Arya’s shoulders. Her sister looked up at her, eyes wide. She looked more fragile than she had in Sansa’s presence for a long time. “You have a home, Arya. You have a pack. Jon, Bran, me. Even Gendry. You are not no one. You have never been no one,” Sansa insisted, rubbing her hands up Arya’s upper arms. “You are my little sister, and I won’t ever let anyone make you feel like that again.” 

Arya’s face softened and slid into Sansa’s arms. She held her little sister as tight as she could, and murmured, “You are the strongest person I know.” It was true. Arya was fierce, and strong, and no one could ever take that away from her. Not as long as Sansa was here.

Arya sniffled and pulled back from Sansa. There were tears welling in her eyes, but she ignored them. “I’m sorry Sansa,” she gushed out. “I’m sorry that I left you in King’s Landing, that we fought so much when we should have leaned on each other.” 

Sansa scoffed. “If either one of us should be apologizing about King’s Landing, it should be me.” Arya shook her head, but Sansa continued. “I was so sure I was getting my song, my golden prince. I couldn’t have been further from the truth.” 

“Are you still mad...about Lady?” Arya asked softly. 

Sansa paused for a moment. Was she? She had never been angry at Arya, not since she had realized the fault laid with the Lannisters, Cersei and Joffrey, more than anyone. Robert had not cared at all, and it was her father who had swung the sword. “I haven’t been angry with you about Lady for a very long time,” Sansa confessed. “You were defending your friend. And Nymeria was defending you. It was Joffrey who caused it. He went after Miach. He kept handing me wine. The fault is his, not yours, Arya,” Sansa said softly, hand on Arya’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” 

“We were both children, Sansa,” Arya insisted. “Maybe…” she paused again. “Maybe Father should have paid us more attention,” she whispered, diverting her eyes, clearly uneasy suggesting their father had been in the wrong. 

“We could spend all day talking about what Father should have done in King’s Landing,” Sansa replied. “But we need to get back to you. Do you not want to do this?” 

Arya shook her head. “I don’t. But I will, one last time. We all need to use our strengths to survive this winter. This one’s mine, even if I don’t like it.” 

“If you’re sure,” Sansa repeated. She didn’t want to hurt Arya, not over this. 

Arya nodded. “I am, Sansa. I really am.” She started to pick up the face, but instead rubbed at her eyes, then looked at Sansa again. “I’m sorry for blubbering all over you.” 

“No need for apologies,” Sansa insisted. “You have every right to share your feelings, just as I do. Just because you’re strong doesn’t mean you don’t need to lean on someone every once in a while.” 

“Thank you, big sister,” Arya said, smiling up at her. Sansa knew their relationship would never be perfect. She expected them to clash for the rest of their lives. But Arya was still her sister. They would always need each other, Sansa realized. 

Arya took a deep breath and picked up the mask. It was a process that unnerved Sansa every time. The magic in the face transformed not only Arya’s physical features, but also her voice and her build. 

As Arya stood, Littlefinger’s face on her, she looked thinner, less muscular. She was slightly taller. Petyr’s classic smirk was on her face. She turned and reached for the clothes they’d saved just for this purpose. As Arya changed, Sansa stood as well and went to look out the window. It was much colder, just feet from the fire, with the snow continuing to fall. Sansa couldn’t even see the land beyond the castle yard, with the thick fog in the air. 

“Well, what do you think?” Littlefinger’s voice asked. Sansa turned, trying to convince her emotions that it was just Arya. The voice tricked her every time. Arya was standing with her arms out, showing off her new look. She looked exactly like him, Sansa realized, her stomach sinking. She was ready for this charade to be done as well. She tried to smile, to seem encouraging, but Arya’s face fell. “What’s wrong?” her sister asked, pulling the face off again. 

Just seeing Arya underneath calmed her nerves. “It’s nothing,” Sansa replied, fidgeting with her sleeve.

“It’s clearly not nothing,” Arya retorted, her fire returning. “Sansa, just tell me.” 

“I’m not fond of seeing his face again, that’s all,” Sansa said. 

Arya snorted. “No shit. He does have one of those faces. Are you going to tell me, or not?” 

Sansa thought of Arya admitting her fears to her. A relationship is a two-way path, Sansa realized. She’d need to give something as well. “I still have some nightmares from Ramsay,” she admitted. “But they never frighten me as much as the ones with Littlefinger.” Arya moved closer to her, looking concerned. “He didn’t hurt me, not physically, but he haunts me all the same.” 

Arya placed her hand on Sansa’s arm and moved it down to take her hand. “After today, you’ll never see this face again.” 

Sansa let the tension fall out of her. “And it won’t be a day too soon.” She paused a moment, pushing away any remaining fear, and tried to return to the topic on hand. “Are you ready? Remember, act as mysterious and aloof as possible. It will be harder to trick Varys and Tyrion. They know Littlefinger, unlike Daenerys.” 

“I’m ready,” Arya insisted. “I watched him for weeks, remember? I can do this.” 

Sansa nodded. She knew Arya was prepared. She was just nervous. Sansa glanced back at the window. “We better hurry,” she exclaimed. “It’s nearly dawn.” 

Arya pulled the face over hers again and looked at up at Sansa. “Remember, hide behind the tapestry of Bran the Builder. It’s the only one tall enough to cover your feet,” she said, teasing. 

Sansa huffed slightly and turned back to the stairs. Arya would follow in a few moments. “You wish you were this tall,” she retorted. 

“Only if I wanted to see the Narrow Sea from the ramparts!” Arya called back. Sansa snorted, taking small steps to avoid slipping down the stairs. 

Their arguing was familiar, despite the situation. It felt nice to still have that, after all these years, Sansa realized. She hurried down the stairs and across the yards and entered the castle proper again. It was much warmer within these walls, heated by the hot springs underneath the castle. Sansa walked along the empty halls, climbing the stairs to reach the highest hallway near the Maester tower. Even with all of the injured soldiers, the hallway was empty this early in the morning. Most were on the ground floor, too injured to climb stairs, and Maester Wolkan and Sam were staying close by. 

Sansa hurried along to the tapestry of Bran the Builder, standing atop Winterfell’s walls. She hid behind it, making sure the tapestry cover her completely. She breathed in the musty smell, reminding her of playing along this hallway as a child, Robb and Jon chasing her, back when Arya was too young to follow them. It had been the very beginning of summer then, she recalled. She was the only Stark in their generation to be born in Winterfell during the Winter, but she had few memories of the cold. Her earliest memories were of chilly sunshine, her brothers smiling down at her. Robb had been possessive of her when they were babes, and she remembered him carrying her across the yard. Jon had been more hesitant, by Sansa still remembered him playing with her, all the same. 

Her heart ached. She missed him desperately. It had only been two weeks, but it felt much longer. Not knowing how the war was going was only making it worse, she had realized. The idea that Jon could be injured or even dead haunted her dreams. She was sleeping even worse than before he’d left, and even then, it had been just a few hours a night. The night they’d spent together had been the first time she’d slept six hours in months. 

She tried to convince herself he was fine. Bran had told them both that he would come home again, but it didn’t soothe her fears. She began to imagine worse and worse things happening to Jon until she heard footsteps enter the hallway. Sansa froze and tried to breathe as lightly as possible. 

“We’re here first, Varys. See, no need to worry.” Tyrion. He had a false cheer in his voice, like he was trying to remain calm. 

“I know, Tyrion,” Varys replied, sounding annoyed. “I’m simply concerned about what this will mean for our future.” 

“Do you think he knows something?” Tyrion asked. 

“I think Littlefinger has an agenda, and it will be good for him, not us,” Varys retorted. 

“Still, with everything going on, it’s better to hear him out.” Sansa was surprised. She had been expecting Varys to be more receptive than Tyrion. He had known Littlefinger longer, Sansa realized. It would be harder to get him to trust him. 

“Good morning,” Sansa heard a new voice. She felt her chest clench. It was Arya, she reminded herself. It was only Arya. 

“Lord Baelish, it’s been too long!” Tyrion exclaimed. Sansa imagined him turning to look at Littlefinger, a pained smile on his face. 

“Lord Tyrion,” Arya replied. “You’re looking well,” she said, slyly. 

“No teasing, Baelish,” Tyrion replied. “I’ve looked much better.” 

“Baelish,” Varys said stiffly. “Why haven’t you been at our council meetings? Has Sansa Stark truthfully seized the North from you?” 

“The North has always been Sansa’s,” Arya said. Sansa could hear her stepping slightly, and knew she was doing it on purpose. She could be as silent as she wanted to be. “I am letting her handle more of the day to day work, proving she’s capable to the Northern Lords.” 

“You don't have to worry about her plotting against you?” Varys asked. Sansa forced herself to not giggle at the irony. 

“She’s clever, yes, but she still can’t lie very well,” Arya replied. Sansa could imagine the look on Littlefinger’s face in her mind, his lips smirking slightly and eyes narrowed. “The North is very well run at the moment, and I have no desire to change that, at least in the midst of the war.” 

“Understandable,” Tyrion said. “And you are still running the Vale, at least until the Arryn boy is of age.” 

“Correct,” Arya replied. Sansa willed her to move the conversation from this point. They hadn’t discussed the Vale in much detail, and this could get her trapped. “I find myself quite curious about your Queen.” 

“She’s your Queen as well,” Tyrion pointed out. “She’s busy with the war, but I know she’d be pleased to meet you as soon as she returns.” 

“What do you think of her, truthfully?” Arya asked. Getting right to the point, Sansa realized. She was doing well. It did not soothe her nerves, however.

“She will be a good queen.” Tyrion seemed to not move from the lines he’d repeated since arriving in the North. “She’s young, but determined.” 

“Why do you want to know, Lord Baelish?” Varys seemed unconvinced of the line of questioning. He did not even was to engage with Littlefinger, even as Tyrion seemed willing to play his game. “Why are you so curious about Daenerys?”

“I met her once, wandering the halls,” Arya admitting. “She seemed a bit lost, to be honest. I believe she would do well under good advisors.” 

“Like yourself, I assume?” Varys seemed to act as if he’d found Littlefinger’s goal, with a lift in his tone.

“I would never presume to include myself,” Arya let out a chuckle. “I’m clearly needed here in the North, with Sansa.” 

“Yes, you and Sansa,” Varys hissed. “You have not married her yet. I am surprised.” Another topic they’d avoided, Sansa realized. 

“These things take time,” Arya replied smoothly. “Do not worry about me. I am simply curious about your queen.” 

“She’s ready.” Varys seemed to finally give in and answer the question. “We will be with her, teach her how to rule instead of conquering.” 

“That seemed to go quite well with Joffrey,” Arya replied flippantly. Sansa smiled. Arya couldn’t help herself. 

“Joffrey was one thing, yes,” Tyrion insisted. “But Daenerys is different. She cares.” 

“She also has two dragons,” Arya pointed out. “Two very big dragons.” She paused for a moment. “Dragons who can be used against anyone, even bastard sons of dead kings.” 

Varys took in a deep breath. “Her Grace has no intention of using her dragons against Robert’s bastards, Littlefinger. I wonder where you even heard that idea?” 

“She’s a young queen, one who needs legitimacy,” Arya replied. “Burning the usurper’s bastards would be a good way.” 

“What is your point Littlefinger?” Tyrion asked directly. He seemed to be at the end of his rope. 

“I just want to remind you both that Westeros is a very large country, and can be ruled in many ways,” Arya said smoothly. Finally getting to the peak of their plans. “One person in one chair is not always the best way.” 

“If you mean to put a crown on Sansa Stark’s head, with you by her side-” Varys began, panic in his voice. 

“I intend nothing of the sort,” Arya stepped again, no doubt closer to Varys. “I am simply letting you know that Westeros is larger than Daenerys knows.” 

“Do you intend to tell her that?” Varys asked, voice rising. 

“I will speak with her when I return,” Littlefinger said lightly. “I am off to the Vale again, for more supplies and to speak with young Robin.” 

“I wish you a good journey,” Tyrion replied lightly. 

“Thank you, my Lord.” Sansa heard a sweep of a clock, and she imagined Littlefinger bowing to the pair of them. She heard steps, and she imagined Arya walking out of sight, taking the face with her forever. 

“Was that a threat of Northern independence?” Tyrion hissed. Arya must be long out of sight. 

“I would much prefer the idea without Littlefinger at the head,” Varys replied lowly. Sansa’s heart soared. 

“Would she ever agree to the idea?” Tyrion asked, worry in his voice. 

“I’m unsure,” Varys said. “She wants that throne, the titles, all of it. And with the dragons, I’m unsure if she’d let this stand. Especially after how much work she went through to get Jon Snow to bend the knee in the first place.” 

“If we could tell her that it would make her look better, to let the Northerners go..” Tyrion began. 

“She might agree,” Varys replied. “But she seems unlikely to listen to us anymore. She pushed us away last week when she was here, and I worry she’ll only drift farther.” Sansa bit her lip. She knew it had been necessary to create the rift between Daenerys and her advisors, so she would not tell Jon’s secret on the cusp of the war, but she wondered if Jon’s insistence that he tell her would hurt them later. 

“We’ll need to get through to her somehow,” Tyrion decided. “Either us, Jorah, or even Jon.” 

“Would he want the throne, do you think?” Varys asked. “Or will it be Sansa or one of the younger ones?” 

“Sansa’s best suited. Bran seems uninterested. Jon seems as if he’ll stay loyal to Daenerys.” Tyrion insisted. “Now come, we should take this back to our chambers before someone comes upon us.” 

Sansa heard them both leave, footsteps echoing down the hallway. Tyrion was muttering about how he could get Daenerys to trust him again, worry in his voice. She made sure they were long gone, before slipping out from behind the tapestry. It was done. Playing politics was done within the walls of Winterfell, at least until humanity was safe from the Others. 

She took a deep breath and began to walk down the hall. Sansa had a few things to get done today before Arya was to leave for the frontlines. She had to respond to a letter from Theon’s sister, Asha Greyjoy, about sending more of Daenerys’ forces to help her in her fight against Euron. Sansa had asked Tyrion yesterday, and he had agreed to send several hundred of the Unsullied who remained in Winterfell. Sansa didn’t completely agree with his choice, but it was his head at risk, not hers, so she agreed to write back to Asha. 

Tyrion had also asked if there was room for forces from Dorne if the missing Princess Arianne could rally men and make the long journey North. With the food coming from Essos, Sansa had agreed, but she was unsure if they could make it in time for the war, with Winter growing worse across all of the kingdoms. 

She’d also need to go see Sam, to ask how their injured were doing. She’d do that first, she decided, turning down the staircase to meet him. The castle was awake, people rushing back and forth to do their duties. With the majority of the soldiers gone, it seemed far emptier than it had been just two weeks past. Sansa rushed into a room on the ground floor and saw Sam leaning over a Lannister soldier. 

“How are the injured?” she asked, coming up to stand beside him. 

Sam glanced back at her, sweat covering his face, despite the temperature. “We lost Ser William from the Vale last night. He passed in his sleep. The others seem to be recovering well.” Ser William had needed his leg removed after it had been crushed by a fearful horse. It was a miracle he’d even made it back to Winterfell. 

“Do we need to redo stitches at all?” Sansa asked, glancing around the room. This one had five different soldiers, and there were at least five more in the next room. 

“Just for the Dothraki rider,” Sam replied. “He seems to have torn them in his sleep.” Neither of them could speak Dothraki, so they were unsure what his name was. He had been delirious since he’d arrived, making it even harder to communicate with him. 

Sansa rolled up her sleeves and followed Sam into the second room. She washed her hands in the warm water in the corner and sat in front of the dark-haired man. His hair was long in the Dothraki style, and his dark skin had been sweaty since he’d returned to the castle. He had taken a spear in his chest, but Sam and Maester Wolkan had managed to clean it out the best they could. Sansa reached for her thread and needle, watching as Sam pulled out the remaining stitches. 

“Ready?” Sam asked. He had been very thankful when Sansa had offered her talents. The Tarly boy may be training to be a Maester, but he was still quite fearful around blood. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Sansa replied, a small smile on her lips. She leaned over the man, who was muttering in his sleep and started to stitch. Once she got going, it was easy to pretend she was stitching cloth instead of skin. When she had almost finished, the man gasped and woke, panic across his face. Sam rushed to calm him down. 

“We’re helping! I promise!” he insisted, looking down as Sansa in concern. She paused her stitches and looked at the panicked man. She needed to keep him calm. She tried to think about what she’d want if she woke up injured with strangers all around her. She motioned to herself, and said, “Sansa.” 

The man continued gasping but stopped struggling. “Sansa,” she repeated, motioning to herself again. 

He took a deep breath and motioned to himself weakly. “Forzo,” he said, still somewhat breathless. 

“Excellent!” Sam exclaimed. He copied their movements and said, “Sam.” Forzo nodded at them both and calmed himself down. 

“We’re just stitching you up,” Sansa told him, motioning stitching with her hands. She wasn’t sure if Forzo understood, but he nodded again and tried to lay down. Sansa finished her stitching as quickly as possible and pulled back. Impossibly, Forzo had fallen back asleep. 

“Well done,” Sam told her. “You should be the Maester.” 

Sansa laughed. “No thank you. Too much blood for me, too.” 

Sam smiled at her. “I’ll come get you if we need you again. I’m sure we’ll get more injured later today.” 

“I’ll be ready,” Sansa called, as she stood and left the room. She still had a great deal to do, she realized. But she needed fresh air. Being with the injured always made her feel cramped. The cold outside air would help. 

She bundled up in her cloak again and headed outside. Soldiers were training in the yard, and she could hear the smithy. Arya’s friend Gendry had left a few days past, with a new load of weapons. He had left several blacksmiths here, making more. The noise had become almost comforting, Sansa thought, crossing the yard.

She headed for the godswood, intending to sit in silence for a bit beneath the weirwoods. With the thick snow, there were fewer people out here than before, but she glimpsed her brother, sitting under the Heart Tree. She could see his eyes for once, but panicked once she realized he was crying. 

She rushed through the snow, trying not to trip over the heavy piles. “Bran!” she called, hurrying to get to him. He glanced over at her, eyes wide. He was still crying.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, gasping for breath as she fell to her knees beside him. 

He looked at her intently but seemed unable to say anything. “Bran just tell me!” she urged. “I’ve been worried about you since you got back to Winterfell, and I know Ayra and Jon feel the same way. What is it?” she asked, trying to gentle her voice. 

Bran swallowed. “I feel trapped,” he whispered. Sansa got closer to him, trying to hear his words. “Ever since the Three-Eyed Raven died. I think I can feel him inside me.” He reached for her hand. Sansa weaved her fingers into his. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to remain gentle. 

“I think he might have warged into me when his body died,” Bran explained, tear tracks appearing stark against his pale cheeks. “He’s inside me, and he’s making it so I can’t feel anything most of the time. Other times, I feel like my emotions are overwhelming me. They just come pouring out of me.” He motioned to tracks across his cheeks. 

“Is there a way to get him out?” Sansa asked, panic continuing in her chest. 

“I think so,” Bran said. “But I don’t know if I want it.” 

“You still aren’t making sense.” 

Bran moved his empty hand to his hair, pulling on the edges nervously. “I told Jon there’s another way for us to win the war, for us to defeat the Others. But it comes at a cost.” He paused, but before she could ask him to keep going, he continued. “It will destroy all the magic that is left in the world. It took magic to create the Others, and it would be the death of that magic to destroy it.” 

“But it would take the Three-Eyed Raven with it?” Sansa asked, urgingly. She was the Stark with the smallest connection to magic. She had never warged into Lady while she was alive, she had never gotten to change her face. But she still understood the cost Bran was talking about. It had been magic that had brought Jon back to life. It wasn’t an easy thing to give up. 

“It would take him, and my warging abilities,” Bran admitted. “And I don’t want to lose them.” 

“But you would be able to feel again.” Sansa was confused. What was it that Bran wanted? 

“I would just be Bran the broken,” Bran whispered, looking down at the ground. 

Sansa’s heart ached. She had left her baby brother in his bed, within a deep sleep, when she’d gone South. It seemed as if Bran was still that little boy. “Bran, you aren’t broken. You were never broken,” she told him, pushing forward to hug him. He wrapped his arms around her, tears wet against her shoulder.  
“If you can’t warg any longer, you’re still you. Bran the Brave, Bran the Brilliant.” She stroked his hair, feeling him shake underneath her. “Bran the Unbroken.” 

She simply held him for a moment, letting him get ahold of his feelings. A few moments later, Bran pulled back from her, and said, “Please don’t tell the others. I can still use my powers, I can still help.” He was trying to be brave, to act like a man. Sansa wondered if this was what Robb had acted like after their father had been executed and a crown was pushed upon his head. Bran was about that age now, and it seemed to young to Sansa now. 

“I know you can,” Sansa replied, reaching for his hand again. She thought of Arya, begging to help. She and Bran were both so young. She and Jon weren’t much older. “But this will free you, right? What does it involve?” 

“The Children created the Others in a weirwood grove,” Bran began. “We have to get him to one, and kill him the same way, using a dragonglass dagger.” 

“Like the ones Arya gave us,” Sansa stated, reaching for the one hidden under her skirts. Bran was quicker and pulled his out of the pocket in his chair. 

“Yes,” Bran said, holding the dagger up. “If we do this, it will be at the cost of all magic. Magic like our greensight, Daenerys’ dragons, Rhollor’s spells. They will all vanish. They all exist in balance with each other. If we take the ice out, then the fire, the water, and the trees will lose their magic as well.”

It was a lot to take on, Sansa realized. No wonder Bran felt so worried. “How do we do it?” 

“We lure the Night’s King to a weirwood grove. If he is flying the third dragon, I might need to warg into the dragon to lead them where we want to go. Then we have to get him off the dragon, without killing him, and get him to the tree, where someone will have to stab him,” Bran explained. “Someone with the blood of the Children, so probably a Northerner, or someone else with First Men blood.” 

“Wait, if this will destroy the magic of the dragons,” Sansa began, a new wave of nerves in her chest. “Does that mean all three will die?” 

Bran nodded. “I believe so.”

“Those dragons mean everything to Daenerys,” Sansa said softly. They were dangerous creatures, a risk to all that were nearby, but the little queen loved them. “She won’t be happy if she knows what we’re doing.” 

“It’s the only way to ensure the Others don’t return,” Bran whispered again, looking down. “It’s the only way I can be human again.” 

“What were the other ways you were looking at?” Sansa asked, trying to find another route. 

Bran sighed and began. “We can kill him with the dragger elsewhere, but I believe that will just start the cycle over again. In thousands of years, our descendants will have to do the same thing we’re doing now. We as Starks will continue to be bound to Winterfell.” 

Sansa opened her mouth. Bound to Winterfell? “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she quoted. “Is there magic in that sentence?” 

Bran nodded. “Starks led the battle against the Others the first time. The Children used their magic to bind us here as long as the Others exist, to stop them in case the Wall failed.” 

“That will end too?” 

“It does not mean we have to leave,” Bran explained. “But we would be able to go if we wanted.” Sansa sat in silence. They would need to kill the dragons, to free Bran and stop the cycle. “How do we do this without hurting Daenerys even more?” 

Sansa found herself copying Arya, biting her lip. “We don’t tell the full truth to the others. You said they’ll all come back?” Bran nodded. “Then we don’t tell them that it will destroy all magic, just ice magic.” 

“Jon will want to know why I didn’t tell him, then,” Bran observed. Sansa swallowed. Jon would feel incredibly guilty about this. He’d flown a dragon. Sansa wasn’t sure if he’d bonded with him yet. But she knew he’d want to keep Bran safe, and happy, just as she did. This was the only way. 

“We’ll tell him, and Arya. Maybe beforehand, somehow?” Sansa wondered aloud. 

“Ghost,” Bran said suddenly. 

“What about him?” Sansa asked. 

Bran motioned behind her. “No, it’s Ghost.” 

Sansa turned quickly. Ghost was sprinting through the weirwoods, heading right for them. Sansa turned around, still on the ground. The large Direwolf rushed and licked her face, before doing the same to Bran. As he leaned past Sansa, she saw a letter bound to a bag wrapped around his back. She reached for the letter, and tore it open, eager to hear from Jon. 

_Dear Sansa, Arya, and Bran,_

_The war has begun. Our plans are not working as we hoped. It is nearly impossible to see where our troops are, and where the wights are, leaving Daenerys somewhat helpless in the sky. The fire wall has worked well, as we are continuing to keep it stocked every day. I fear we will need the entirety of the Wolfswood before the war is won. We have lost a number of soldiers already, and we must burn them to keep them from returning the next night. No sign of the Night King or Viserion yet. I hope everything is going well back in Winterfell. I hope to see Arya soon._

_Please write back quickly. I miss you all._

_Remember my goodbyes. ___

____

__

_Jon_

Sansa swallowed hard. It was worse than she could have imagined. She wondered how long they could keep this up until the Night King showed his face. She handed the letter to Bran, and let him read it while she was petting Ghost absentmindedly. 

“We can send a letter back to him on Ghost,” Bran told her, handing her back the letter. Sansa nodded, feeling exhausted. She would need to start writing soon to get through all these letters. 

“I can write it,” Bran decided. 

Sansa raised her eyebrows. “Bran, it’s alright I can-”

“No,” Bran said firmly. Sansa was surprised at his tone. “You’re exhausted, Sansa. Have you eaten anything today?” When Sansa stayed silent, Bran correctly took that as a negative. “Take Ghost and go eat something. Rest for a while, before Arya leaves. You never even told me how she did as Littlefinger.” 

“She did very well,” Sansa said, not wanting to give away Arya’s secrets. “ Tyrion and Varys believed it was him. I don’t think we’ll need to use her faces again.” 

“Good,” Bran said. “Because her magic will go away too if we choose this plan.” Sansa didn’t say that she thought Arya would prefer it, but she thought Bran might know anyway. 

“I’ll go eat something,” Sansa said, giving in to Bran’s suggestions. “Do you want to come as well?” 

Bran nodded. “Just take me to the great hall.” 

Sansa stepped around Bran and grasped the handles on his chair. The snow was deep, almost too deep to push through, but Sansa managed. The tracks from earlier in the day helped. “Come Ghost,” she called behind. Ghost shot up and followed at her heels. Once winter was over, she’d have to find a way to make the castle easier for Bran to navigate. Maybe even put something in the crypts. 

By the time they were in the castle, Sansa was shivering again. Out under the weirwoods, she hadn’t noticed the cold, but once they started moving, the wind had picked up again. She led Bran to the great hall, which was mostly empty. She left him near the fire, waving as she headed to the kitchens, Ghost still following her. 

She begged some food off the cooks, who handed her a plate full of vegetables and a small bit of meat. Before she asked, another cook gave Ghost a piece of raw meat, which he ate rapidly. After she thanked them both, she led Ghost upstairs, to her solar. 

The fire was still burning from last night, and she sat at the table and ate as quickly as she could. She hadn’t even realized she was hungry until Bran had said something. Ghost laid at her feet, warming them.  
After she ate, she found herself with enough energy to write her letters to both Asha Greyjoy and Arianne Martell. 

By the time she was finished, the sky was darkening again. She sat for a few moments, enjoying the warmth of the castle. Arya would need to leave soon, in order to begin the journey to Long Lake. With the increasingly dangerous weather, it would day days to get there, and she needed a head start while daylight remained. Sansa stood, stretching her back, and turned to call Ghost to follow her. To her surprise, he had perked up, ears raised, and he rushed to the door. Sansa let him out, and he sprinted down the hallway, trying to get outside. 

Sansa hurried after him, wondering what could cause him to react like that. As soon as she left the castle, she knew. 

The castle yard had no soldiers training at this hour but instead was full of wolves, with one giant direwolf at the head. Arya was already wrapped up in her fur, the direwolf towering over her. Ghost was nuzzling her as well. The two were nearly the same size, but Ghost’s white fur was a sharp contrast to Nymeria’s gray coat. Sansa allowed herself one moment of longing for Lady, imaging her this size, before stepping out to greet Nymeria as well. 

As Sansa approached Nymeria raised her head and stared at her. Sansa was uneasy. Did the direwolf blame her for Arya scaring her away? But to her surprise, Nymeria brushed Arya off and came to greet Sansa. She nuzzled into Sansa’s hand, and Sansa hugged her as she’d hugged Ghost earlier. The direwolf smelled of snow and dirt, as Arya did these days. She was warm and felt like home. 

“Did they just arrive?” Sansa asked, pulling back from Nymeria to let Arya pet her again. 

Arya nodded. “And they weren’t alone.” 

Sansa turned to look behind the wolves, where she realized Bran was sitting. He was talking to a dark-haired girl who looked vaguely familiar, and a short thin man was standing beside him. There were several warriors near the gate, all looking exhausted. Looking at the girl again, Sansa realized it was Meera Reed. Which made the man her father, Howland Reed. One of Ned Stark’s oldest friends. 

Sansa rushed to greet them. “Welcome to Winterfell, Lord Reed,” she told him, putting on her Lady’s face. “I’m sorry we do not have much prepared for your arrival.” 

Howland Reed smiled at her. “I would be surprised if you did,” he told her. “We did not even know we were coming until the direwolf passed with her pack. We took that as a sign we were needed.” 

“We appreciate your support,” Sansa told him. Her father had always said the Reeds were incredibly loyal, and Sansa did not want to jeopardize that loyalty. “We will have rooms prepared for you and your men.” 

“That’s not necessary,” Lord Reed replied. “We only mean to stop for a brief break. We would like to head to the front lines of the war if you could point us in the right direction, Lady Stark.” 

Sansa was surprised but knew Jon would welcome more fighters. “Yes, of course, my Lord. Please, go inside, get warm,” she told the warriors behind him. They all hurried past, into the welcome warmth. 

“I also must speak to your bastard brother, Jon Snow,” Reed told her. “Is he leading the battle?” 

“Yes,” Sansa told him, falling in step as they headed inside as well. Bran was talking to Meera still, and Arya was distracted by the wolves. “What is it you must discuss?” 

“I need to tell him about his mother,” Howland Reed said. Sansa froze. She had not thought the secret had been known to others. She glanced around, making sure Varys or Tyrion weren’t lurking about. 

“He knows already, my Lord,” Sansa told him softly. “But I’m sure he’d appreciate hearing it from you, as well.” 

Howland Reed nodded. “Sounds good, my Lady. We will warm our bodies, and head out as well.” 

“They are just south of Long Lake,” Sansa told him. “It’s a large camp, hard to miss.” 

Howland Reed bowed slightly at her and walked to sit with his men. The serving girls were already passing out drinks and bowls of broth. Sansa turned to get back to her siblings but found Arya and Nymeria already walking towards her. 

“It’s a sign, Sansa,” Arya said excitedly. “I have to leave tonight.” Sansa’s heart clenched. She knew Arya would have to go, but she didn’t have to like it. Before she could reply, Arya looked back at Nymeria. “Do you think I could ride her?” 

“Ride her?” Sansa repeated, eyebrows raised. 

“She’s big enough, isn’t she? And I’m small enough!” 

“You could try,” Sansa said doubtingly. Nymeria had been wild even as a pup, years of freedom would not make her easy to ride. 

“She’ll know me,” Arya said confidently. “I’m going to get my pack!” She rushed down the hallway, Nymeria at her heels. For a moment, Sansa felt as if she was eleven again. 

She turned back to meet Bran, but he and Meera were already on their way inside as well. “Hello, Lady Meera,” Sansa said greeting her. Meera was older than she was, but was slightly shorter, with brown curly hair chopped short.

“Lady Sansa,” Meera replied. She was gripping Bran’s chair tightly. 

“Meera’s going to stay here with us,” Bran told her. His face looked emotionless again. Sansa missed the boy she’d found in the godswood, tears and all. 

“We’re grateful to have you,” Sansa told Meera, who smiled tightly, before guiding Bran inside the Great Hall. Bran handed her a piece of paper as they passed. Sansa glanced down and saw a letter addressed to Jon. Bran had finished already. Sansa headed back outside and saw Ghost standing in the yard where she’d left him. He was inspecting the other wolves, all much smaller than he was. 

“Come here, boy,” she called softly. He walked back to her, and Sansa slid the letter in the bag tied against his chest. “It’s for Jon,” she told him. Ghost licked her hand, understanding. “Go with Arya when she leaves. Make sure she gets to Jon as well.” 

“Well Lady Stark, I didn’t know you were letting in all the wolves!” A voice called from behind her. Tyrion was standing at the doorway, eyes wide as he took in the pack. 

“They came with my sister’s direwolf,” she told him, taking him in as well. He had on thick clothing, armor underneath. There were a sword and a dagger on his hips. There was a pack on his back as well. “Where are you going, Lord Tyrion?” 

“I have decided to head out to fight as well,” Tyrion told her, eyes set. Sansa did not even try to talk him out of this. It was not her place. 

“My sister is leaving soon, as are some men from the Neck,” she said. “You can go with them.” 

Tyrion looked up at her, eyes softening. “Thank you, Sansa.” She nodded. 

“Be careful,” she told him. She did not care for him, but Sansa found she would not wish him dead, either. 

“I’m more fearful of Daenerys’ reaction than the undead,” Tyrion said, trying to joke. It fell flat, his fear obvious in his eyes. Sansa reached out and squeezed his shoulder, before heading back inside. 

The Reed soldiers were already finishing their meals and standing again, Sansa realized. Arya was talking to Howland Reed, looking ready to brave the Winter in the cloak Sansa had made for her. 

“She was waiting for you?” Arya was asking as Sansa approached. 

“Aye, she was,” Reed replied. “Standing outside the Keep, not a care in the world.” 

Arya laughed, as they both turned to face Sansa. “We’ll be heading out soon,” Lord Reed told her. “Just have to get the horses ready.” 

Sansa nodded. “I wish you good luck on your journey,” She told him, offering him a smile as he headed outside. She turned to her sister. “Please be careful out there,” she told her. “I know you can take care of yourself, but I still want you to be safe.” 

Arya nodded, looking serious again. “I will, I promise. Stay safe here, as well.” She leaned towards Sansa and whispered, “Bran told me what you talked about. I’ll explain it to Jon if need be.” 

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered back. They stared at each other for a moment, before they both rushed together. Sansa hugged Arya fiercely. “I love you, Arya,” she whispered. 

“I love you too,” Arya replied, words lost in Sansa’s furs. 

They eventually pulled back from each other, and Sansa’s eyes felt wet. She brushed the tears off her face and fell into line as Arya led them outside. Nymeria was already out there, standing by her pack. The soldiers from the Neck were on their horse, including Lord Reed. Tyrion was on one as well. Arya looking in surprise. “He’s coming along,” Sansa muttered. “Probably to get to Daenerys.” 

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Arya promised. She looked up at Sansa. “There’s a present on your desk, by the way. Yours to do with as you wish.” She motioned down to her pack. “I have a letter I’ll mail in about a week, as well.” 

Sansa nodded. Littlefinger’s death notice. It couldn’t come soon enough. “Be safe,” she told Arya one last time. Arya smiled back at her and turned to find Nymeria. 

Sansa watched as her sister mounted her direwolf, who took her eagerly onto her back. Arya moved around nervously for a moment, but she found a comfortable position for them both. She looked regal upon Nymeria’s back, sword and dagger at her sides. They looked like a matching set, as if there was no way anyone could think they’d been apart for years. 

Sansa smiled and waved as Arya turned and led the group out of Winterfell, Nymeria’s pack right behind her. Howland Reed’s men followed her, Tyrion lost amongst the crowd. Ghost ran back to nuzzle Sansa one last time, before following them as well. 

Sansa climbed the ramparts and watched until they were all out of sight. She felt exhausted. She knew she should eat again, but first, she headed back to her solar, to see Arya’s present. 

Her fire was still burning, and Sansa saw Littlefinger’s face lying on her desk. She picked it up, as quickly as possible, and glanced around her room, looking for a solution. Her eyes fell back to the fire, and without stopping to think about it, she tossed him to the flames.


	8. Daenerys Targaryen II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The War for the Dawn is being fought in full force. Daenerys finds herself conflicted. Tyrion attends his third trial.

Today was the first day the sun was shining for the past two weeks. The heavy winter clouds, full of snow, had passed, leaving the air bitterly cold and unbearable. Up high in the sky, it was even colder, with any drops of moisture instantly freezing. Dany was bundled up as warmly as she could manage, with layers of furs covering all of her skin. The only part of her body not covered by white fur were her eyes, blinking repeatedly in the bright sun. 

With the sun shining, Dany stopped trying to sleep, and had decided to escape the darkness of her tent and take to the sky on Drogon’s back. She’d spent the last two weeks up in the air at night, trying to help in the war effort. It seemed all but useless with the heavy winter clouds and thick winds. Instead of flying deep into the battlefield, Dany had found herself keeping Drogon and Rhaegal near the fire wall, using their flames to destroy the wights before they could get close to their camp. Every time she’d tried to go into the battlefield she’d have a close call, almost burning the living instead of the dead. 

She felt completely useless. Dany had never learned how to use a sword, and it was her dragons that could fight, not her. And with the weather getting worse by the day, her children were less useful against this enemy. Dany slowed Drogon down and closed her eyes. Between the war and her own demons, she’d felt completely miserable the last few weeks. 

Before she’d left to meet her soldiers at the battle camp, Dany had spent her last few days at Winterfell moping in her rooms, feeling lost. The purpose she’d seized for her life was a lie. She was not destined to be the queen of anything. What was the point? If the Targaryen dynasty had survived, she would have been nothing more than the third child, the last in line. She would have never sat on the Iron Throne had Rhaegar lived, and it even seemed less likely in this world, with more of her soldiers dying each day. The dead felt as if they would never be defeated, and there might not even be a Westeros for anyone to rule in the end. 

When she wasn’t either flying through the night or sleeping during the morning, she continued to hide in her tent. She didn’t want to speak to anyone, and only Jorah and Grey Worm dared enter her tent, bringing discouraging reports of the front lines. They both seemed worried about her, but she did not confide in either of them. She wouldn’t until she could decide how to feel about the secret the Starks had revealed to her. 

The wind picked up, forcing Dany to open her eyes. It felt painfully cold, but being in the sky was the only way she felt normal. She nudged Drogon again, forcing him to speed up. They were above Long Lake. Dany could see smoke in the distance, the burning of those who had died the night before. Every day they were forced to find the dead as quickly as possible, and burn them, or risk them rising again. Dany had suggested that she simply use her dragons to fly over the battlefields and destroy the dead that way, but Jorah had worried that it would exhaust her dragons, on top of their actions at night. She nudged Drogon to turn west, streaking towards the camps. 

She glanced back to make sure Rhaegal remained behind her. Her second dragon had seemed distant with her lately, and she was worried that introducing him to Jon, letting them bond, had been a mistake. The green dragon still followed her commands, as well as his brother’s lead, but she still felt as if something had been broken between them.

They both streaked through the sky, racing towards the ground. Dany clutched to Drogon’s back, trying to get as close as she could to his warm skin. Neither of them seemed more uncomfortable in the cold then they had in Winterfell, but Dany still worried. She was their mother. She needed to take care of them, to keep them safe. She had already failed with Viserion. 

There had been no glimpse of her third dragon yet, or the Great Other who supposedly rode his back. Dany wasn’t sure if that was a blessing or a curse. If their forces could barely survive against the wights, what chance did they have against the White Walkers? Even Jorah had seemed less optimistic the last few nights, worrying that even if they could defeat the Others, there would be no army left to fight the Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy down South. 

As they got closer to the ground, Dany pressed against Drogon’s left side, urging him to slow down. He obeyed, letting up, and landing softly against the ground. They were a few hundred yards from the camp, near the snow piles the dragons called their home during the last few weeks. Food had already been delivered, and as Dany slid off Drogon’s back, both dragons rushed towards a pair of sheep laid out for them. 

Dany looked back at them, fondly, before turning for the camp. The side nearest the dragons had the tents of all the battle commanders, as well the smithy and the site for the burning of the bodies. Her own tent was within her sight. Dany climbed through the snow, eager to be warm again. She was jealous of anyone taller than she, anyone who could walk through this snow with ease. It took all her effort to step through the snowbanks. 

As she approached the tents, Dany could see people beginning to wake, and start to rush about, preparing for another long night ahead of them. She could see Jorah in the distance, talking to a Wildling, but she found she didn’t want to talk to anyone and instead headed straight for her tent. 

She slid into the warmth of her tent and rushed to the fire. It was small, but it warmed the entire structure. Dany sat in front of the fire, warming her bones before moving to take off the outer layers of her furs. She sat in silence for a few minutes, before finding the energy to move again. Someone had left a bowl of broth on her table, and she ate it eagerly. It was still warm enough to sent a rush of heat through her stomach. 

When she felt warm both inside and out, she slid off her outer furs. She was still dressed in her original fur coat she wore when arriving at Winterfell, but it felt as if it was now her second skin in the bitter cold. Dany huddled next to the fire, feeling more at home than she had when walking through the snow. 

In the dark warmth of the tent, Dany started thinking about Jon’s revelation. She didn’t understand why he had told her now, instead of waiting until after the war-if there was to be an after. Telling her now only had her more distracted. By waiting until she was in Winterfell, with her armies and her dragons, he had made sure she would be committed to his cause. During her days locked in her rooms in Winterfell, Dany had realized how bad it would look for the Queen of Westeros to abandon her people to this threat.

If she wanted to be queen, she had to stay committed here, to the battle with the dead. And what she was seeing every day made it harder for her to separate her heart from the cause as well. Dany had watched hundreds die at the hands of the dead and had seen her soldiers, both Dothraki and Unsullied, rise again and turn on their brothers. This was not a threat she could ignore, not anymore. Not with so many of her soldiers already dead or dying. But she was still distracted by Jon’s revelation. 

He was Rhaegar’s son, the youngest child of a brother she’d never met. He hadn’t met him either, but he had the claim to the throne. He had the bloodline, one that even she did not have. After the Others were defeated, did he intend on announcing his parentage, and claiming the throne outright? But that didn’t feel right. Jon had not told her about much, but it was obvious to her that he had no ambition to seize a throne that was so far from his family, the Starks. Dany doubted they’d all leave their home, and based on what she’d seen of their interactions, she doubted Jon would leave without them, 

What was his goal? Dany wondered, staring into the flames. What did he want? The easiest way to find out would be to talk to him, but she was still pained by his lies. She had been so distracted by how special she thought he was, how similar she had seen them as. But he’d been lying to her the whole time, as Jorah had when they’d met. It hurt to go through the same experience again. But Dany didn’t know how long she could avoid Jon, in the midst of this war. 

Dany was lost in her thoughts until she heard a voice calling, “Daenerys?” She turned from the fire, and saw Jorah pulling the door of her tent open. 

“Come in,” she told him, and he rushed in, hurrying to keep the cold out. He joined her in front of the fire, warming his hands near the flames. “What is it, Jorah?” she asked, looking back at the fire. 

“We’ve been worried about you,” Jorah told her. She could feel his gaze on her face. “You’ve been withdrawn for weeks now. It’s unlike you to avoid everyone.” 

That was true. She had continually dismissed both Jorah and Grey Worm, and with Missandei and her Dothraki handmaidens back in Winterfell, she spoke to very few people these days. 

“Do you want to tell me?” Jorah asked softly. Dany finally looked up at him. Her old bear. He’d been with her from the very beginning, before Viserys was gone, before she even thought to pursue her claim. They’d been through so much together, from his lies, to how he continued to return to her, to how he refused to let her go. He’d love her anyway, Dany knew. Jorah had loved her when she had nothing, when she was bleeding out from the witch’s powers, when she was flying a dragon. Nothing would change that, even now, when they had returned to his home. 

He looked like he belonged up here, amongst the snow. His cheeks were constantly flushed pink with the cold, but he seemed to relish it, unlike her. “What do you think of the North now, Jorah?” She asked. “Are these Starks like the ones you remember?” 

“The North is in the midst of a war,” Jorah admitted. “But it seems similar. Ned Stark, like his father before him, ruled the North sternly, but effectively. Without the Boltons here any longer, the Northmen seem more united than ever behind the Starks. They love them, they offer them their loyalty. And Jon Snow seems a worthy man, your Grace.”

A worthy man. Dany knew he’d only grow more worthy in their eyes if he won the war against the dead. She would never reach that level of affection here the North, she thought bitterly. Even if she saw this battle through, it would always be Jon’s victory, not hers. “I find myself conflicted,” she admitted, reaching out for Jorah’s hand. He squeezed back, fingers intertwined. “I have for so long believed in my destiny, that I was to rule the Iron Throne. But now it feels so far out of reach. And if I do not have that ambition, who am I?” 

“You are still Daenerys,” Jorah told her, eyes intensely looking at hers. “You are still that young girl who survived Khal Drogo. You have a kind heart, Daenerys. And nothing would take that away. You have freed slaves, you have pursued justice. No matter where you end up, you have created that legacy.” 

Dany felt her lips rise slightly. She had done all those things, yes, but in Essos. They all seemed to matter little here, in Westeros, which felt so often like a different world. “I don’t feel like her anymore,” she admitted, averting her eyes. “I feel so far from that girl that she seems like a completely different person.” 

“Do not lose yourself,” Jorah pled, reaching out to touch her face and turn her gaze back to his own. “Your strength, Daenerys, does not come from your armies, or even your dragons. It comes from your experiences, and what you choose to do with them.” 

Dany didn’t understand what he meant. Without her dragons, she would have been dead long ago. Her armies had moved her across continents, across the seas. Without either of them, she’d still be wandering the Red Wastes. Dany had thought she had them all because it was her destiny. Now it just seemed like dumb luck. She pulled back from Jorah and stood to sneak a look outside the tent, cold air rushing at her face. There was a large number of people gathered a few dozen yards away, many dismounting from horses. “Do you know who has arrived?” she asked, desperate to change the subject. 

“No, your grace,” Jorah said, standing as well. “We could go find out.” Dany nodded, and reached back for her second layer of clothing. Jorah waited for her to finish dressing, and opened the tent and allowed her to pass first. 

It was no warmer than it had been an hour past, but the flames had settled within Dany’s chest. She felt more prepared to face the cold. 

She and Jorah walked as quickly as they could to the gathering. Dany spotted not only horses, but also a number of wolves. Jon was helping a figure off of one of the wolves, and showing a letter to their face. It was not until they were much closer than Dany realized it was Lady Arya. She didn’t recognize any of the others, but assumed they were all from Winterfell as well. 

As they got closer, Arya must have seen them, as Jon turned around with surprise on his face, ending his conversation with his sister. She turned and went to embrace another dark-haired man. “Hello, Jon,” Dany called, walking to stand in front of him. He was only in one layer of furs, but he seemed more comfortable than Dany in her two layers. 

“Your grace,” he greeted her, tucking the letter back into his furs. “It is nice to see you out,” he added, moving closer, out of Jorah’s sightline. “May we speak later?” Jon asked, eyes boring into hers. 

Dany didn’t want to talk to him. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about his existence, let alone whatever it was he wanted to share with her. But she nodded. She needed to bridge this gap, take a step forward. If she did not, she feared this secret would drive her mad. 

“Later tonight,” she promised. “Who are our new arrivals?” 

“Mostly men from the Neck,” Jon told her. “Stark bannerman. Arya came along, as did Tyrion.” 

“Tyrion?” she repeated, making sure she’d heard him correctly. 

Jon nodded. “Aye, he’s over there,” he told her, pointing to her left. She glanced and saw her Hand talking eagerly to his brother, both following the Lady Brienne through the camp. 

She felt her heart burst into flames. Dany had specifically told Tyrion to stay in Winterfell. She didn’t want him here, making her doubt herself, making her feel unprepared. And he was at risk here. He would never admit it, Dany knew, but he would not be able to fight as any other man. He was safer in Winterfell. 

She stormed away from Jon and Jorah, eyes narrowed as she approached Tyrion. 

“Lord Tyrion,” she called, an edge in her voice, as she walked up behind the two brothers. Tyrion froze and turned to face her, fear in his eyes. As there should be, she thought darkly. “I thought I told you I did not want you fighting these battles? You were to remain in Winterfell, safe,” she demanded, coming to stop in front of him.

“I know you told me so, your grace. I disobeyed your direct orders, yes. But I needed to speak with you,” Tyrion insisted, looking up at her intently. 

Dany didn’t want to do this out in the cold, so she turned and called back to Tyrion. “If we are to have this discussion, it will be in my tent. Alone.” 

“Alright, your grace,” she heard Tyrion relent, and he fell into step behind her. They walked in silence during the journey back to her tent, the background noises of the smithy and the soldiers filling the air. By the time they entered her tent, Dany was warmer than she’d felt all day. Not because of the weather, but the anger building in her chest. She was furious. Tyrion refused to listen to her, her dragons were forced to fight in this war that put them at risk, and she was losing soldiers every day. Jon Snow had come into her life and turned it upside down, and she was farther from her goal than ever before. Before Jon had arrived in Dragonstone, Tyrion would have never dared to disobey her so openly. How was she to deal with him now? 

She brushed by the opening in her tent and went to stand in front of the fire. Daenerys did not even dignify Tyrion with a look. For several moments they stood in silence until Tyrion began to speak. “I understand you are angry with me, Daenerys, but I needed to speak with you.” 

“About what?” 

Tyrion let out a deep breath. “Where to start? Everything, anything. You’ve pulled so far away from me, I barely know how what you are thinking or what you are planning next. You are so far from the woman I meet in Meeren, that it’s hard to recognize you most days.” 

Tyrion’s words echoed Jorah’s, Dany realized. Was she so hard to understand these days? “And you feel entitled to my every thought?” she asked, trying to control her anger. “Must I tell you every little thing that goes through my head?” 

“No!” Tyrion replied. “Dany, I just want you to understand where I am coming from. I was forced from Westeros, chased by my own family. I thought I had no purpose, nowhere to turn. But you were there, Daenerys. You and your glorious dragons, your fated destiny. I never thought I would have a path in life. But you gave it to me.” He paused, waiting for her interject. Dany didn’t move. He continued on, the words pouring out of him. “But when we got back to Westeros, when I had to look at my siblings in their eyes, it was so much harder than I thought it would be. They are still my family, no matter what comes between us. And here I am, torn between my duty to you, and my love for them. I am conflicted, yes, but who could not be in my position?” 

He stopped, nearly out of breath. Dany’s thoughts turned to Jon, looking pained in the firelight, to Viserys, golden crown on his head. Family did make it harder. She knew that more than anyone. 

“Do you think I am only pulling away from you because of your family?” she asked, finally turning around to look at him. “Do you think I fear the Lannister name so much to push you aside when you speak to your brother?” Tyrion was looking at her with pleading eyes, looking breathless from the cold. 

“Are you?” Tyrion asked, eyes wide. 

“You have been giving me terrible advice since the moment we arrived at Dragonstone. Ask Jon Snow to come South! Head north of the Wall with your dragon! Meet with Cersei! None of it was useful, Tyrion. It did not matter if it was because of your Lannister name, or because of your own failings. I have pulled away because you disappointed me, Tyrion,” she told him, lips pulled sharp. She was tired of playing games with him, tired of appeasing him. If he could not be useful, it was time for him to go. 

“Do you think I thought it would go this way? With your dragons and your armies, I had hoped- and prayed- that Cersei and the Lords of Westeros would give up before they put their lives at risk! But no, they insisted on fighting, on trying to defeat a force that would never bring anything but destruction to their people. I did not know what to do then. If you destroy the people of Westeros, Dany, you will never be their queen. You would only be their tyrant. You would be as bad as your father. That’s why I insisted on the Dragonpit meeting. It was for you. It was all for you,” Tyrion trailed off, softly. 

She continued to glare at him, not giving an inch. What did he want her to do? Ask nicely for a throne? No one had ever conquered a kingdom like that, let alone seven. “Aegon conquered Westeros, and the people loved him,” she countered. 

“They loved him because your family won, Dany,” Tyrion pointed out. “Aegon started the wheel, created the Seven Kingdoms as we know it. If you do as he did, take Westeros with fire and blood, the whole cycle will continue again, until another family rebels against yours. You told me in Mereen that you wanted to break the wheel, not sit on top of it. And you can still do that,” Tyrion insisted, stepping closer to her. “You can break the wheel, start fresh.” 

She turned away from him, looking back at the flames. She had spent so long idealizing Aegon and his sisters, what they’d been able to do. She had wanted the same, had thought she was fulfilling her destiny. It fell flat after Jon’s revelation. She wasn’t much of a politician, but maybe she could out-think the Starks. Maybe there was a way she could still win. “And what good comes from breaking the wheel?” she asked, voice softer. 

“You will be remembered as a hero,” Tyrion told her. “You will finally be able to fix what your ancestors did wrong. You will rule with kindness, instead of an iron fist. That will be your legacy.”

Dany felt conflicted. All these words were nice, but Tyrion did not know she had no claim to the Iron Throne. If she wanted to take it, to make her claim on it, she’d have to fight to prove herself. It was not a simple as her hand wanted it to be. And how could she think of a legacy? She could not bear children. If it were not for Jon, the Targaryen line would die with her. “Is this why you came here?” Dany asked, turning back to him again. “Is this what you wanted to say?” 

“Yes,” Tyrion told her, still looking desperate. “I needed you to know. And I needed to be here, to fight.” 

Dany felt a look of exasperation cross her face. “You still think I want you to fight? After you gave me the first good piece of advice in over a year?” 

Tyrion smiled bitterly. “I doubt that you do. But I still need to do this. I have spent so long running from things, Dany. Let me run towards one, just once.” 

Dany swallowed. She didn’t want him to fight. She already had to worry about Grey Worm, about Jorah, about her dragons. She didn’t want to add Tyrion to the list. But she nodded. She just kept giving in, Dany thought. She was still so raddled from what the Starks had revealed to her back in Winterfell. 

“You will fight,” she told him solemnly. “And I will expect you to do well.” 

Tyrion laughed darkly. “You sound as if you passing a sentence on me. This does feel as if it is another trial. Forcing me to justify my actions, not listening to me as I do” he muttered, trailing off into silence. 

She decided to humor his ramblings. “If you want a ruling, I would have you fight the Others in a trial of combat,” she told him. “I expect you to win. That is an order from your Queen.” Tyrion bowed and looked up with relief in his face. 

“I will try, your grace.” 

He turned and left the tent, seeming lighter than he had when they’d entered. Dany sat in front of the fire, hoping she would not regret this. Playing along with Tyrion’s joke didn't make her heart feel any lighter. She sat for only a moment, before deciding she needed a drink. There was a tent near the smithy with castes of mead, and she wanted something to warm her stomach. 

The sun was still high in the sky as she exited the tent. There were still several hours until they’d need to prepare to fight. Dany could see clouds in the distance, starting to roll in. There would no doubt be snow falling in a few hours, making the battle even more difficult. 

Most of the people standing through the camp had scattered, either resting for the night to come or simply waiting for the oncoming battle. There was less noise, except for the smithy. As she approached it, Dany glanced in, curiously. “Have you come for a weapon?” A voice shouted from inside. Dany froze. She doubted whoever was on the other side of that voice knew who she was, that they were addressing a queen, but a weapon was not a bad idea. She thought back to her regrets while she was on Drogon’s back. A weapon could make her more useful, in case of an unexpected situation. 

“Yes, I would like one,” she called to the voice inside the smithy. A dark-haired man walked out, a crude dragonglass dagger in his hands. He was the man she’d seen hugging Arya earlier. He walked with his head down, polishing the dagger. There was soot and sweat on his face, and he was dressed as warmly as she was, despite the heat of the forge. 

He looked up and their eyes met. “Your grace!” he exclaimed. His hands dropped to his side, and he looked at a loss for what he was to do. 

Dany tried not to laugh. “It is alright. Calm down,” she told him. He controlled his breathing and thrust the dagger in front of her. 

“I’m afraid we aren’t making them very well,” he told her, almost embarrassed. Dany took the dagger from him and inspected it. It was dark and looked rough around the edges. It would do. 

“It is a dagger, is it not? All it needs is to stab,” she replied, eyes full of mirth for the first time in weeks. 

“I suppose so, your grace,” the man admitted. He fidgeted in front of her. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’ve never met a queen before, I don’t know how to act.”

“You’re doing fine,” she told him, pocketing the dagger and looking at him again. “I hadn’t met one either, most of my life.” Dany paused, and asked, “What’s your name?” 

“Gendry Waters, your grace,” he replied. 

“Waters? Is that a bastard name? “ she asked, curious. 

He nodded. “Aye, it is. From King’s Landing. I spent most of my life there.” 

“Why did you leave?” she asked. He was one of the first small folk she’d met in Westeros. It would do good to understand him, she thought. 

“I was running from the queen, your grace,” Gendry admitting, looking down. “She was after me.” 

Dany wanted to laugh. “I had a similar experience with her husband,” she told Gendry, happy she had someone she could share the experience with. “I spent most of my childhood running, not knowing where I would be from day to day.” 

“It’s a hard life,” Gendry agreed, eyes down. 

“Why did you need to run?” Dany asked. “I doubt it was anything like mine. On the run for simply existing! For being born a Targaryen.” She felt anger rise in her chest, thinking of Robert Baratheon. 

Gendry remained silent for a moment. Dany imagined he was a criminal, on the run for robbing or raping. He wouldn’t be the first man she’d met from that situation. 

“Go on,” she encouraged him. “I’m to be your queen. I can pardon you, once I take my throne.” 

Gendry took a deep breath. “I was running because Queen Cersei killed all of Robert Baratheon’s bastards. She suspected I was one, so I was on the run to survive.”

Dany froze. One of Robert Baratheon’s bastards? She’d never met the man, but she remembered Tyrion describing him as tall and broad, with piercing blue eyes. The young man before her fit that profile. She thought back to her words to her council. She had wanted to have this man killed, just for existing. She was nearly as bad as Robert, she thought faintly, panic ringing through her head. What was she doing? She thought to Tyrion’s pleading, to Jorah’s words. What path had she put herself on? 

She found herself lost in her thoughts. She’d come so far from being that little girl on the run, she had nearly forgotten what it had been like, to be poor and hunted. Jorah had told her that her strength was in her experiences. Maybe this is what he meant. She could empathize with this man. It was up to her to decide what to do with that information. 

Dany caught her breath, and looked back at Gendry. He looked pale underneath his soot. “Are you the only one who survived?” she asked, eyes wide. 

Gendry nodded. “I’ve never met anyone else.” 

Dany thought back to Varys’ words. The decision was easy, in the end. “If we survive this war, maybe you could become Lord Gendry Baratheon.” She thought back to Lady Arya hugging him. “Worthy of any Lady.” She still felt that pull, she realized. She wanted the Starks to like her, to believe in her. They were addicting, like sweet cakes. Keeping Gendry alive could only help their opinion of her. 

“I would like that, your grace,” Gendry replied, nearly stumbling over his words. 

Dany nodded at him and turned to leave. “Thank you for the dagger,” she called back. 

“You’re welcome!” she heard him call after her. Dany barely processed his words. She still felt more lost than before. What had become of her? She had been so invested in the throne, so convinced that she had a destiny to fulfill. She had lost sight of the girl who had spent her childhood on the run, the woman who had been sold off for her brother to gain an army. She’d been so obsessed with being Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons, that she’d lost sight of Dany, scared and cold, pining for a home with a red door, with a lemon tree outside the window. 

She started wandering almost at random, walking through the rows of tents. She saw the Dotharki and the Unsullied mingling with Northerners, Lannister men, Knights of the Vale. Here, they were all soldiers, no different from one another. She saw a few familiar faces, including Lady Brienne’s squire, the red-headed Wilding, and Lady Arya, talking to a tall man with a burnt face. 

She felt so apart from them. She’d placed herself above everyone else, far above upon her dragons, and it was harder to get back to the ground. 

“Daenerys?” a voice asked. She turned to the left, and saw Jon leaving a tent, his eyes wide as he took her in. 

Dany didn’t wait to think, and simply told him, “I’m ready to talk now.” 

Jon nodded, and ushered her inside. His tent was smaller than her own, but just as warm. His large direwolf was sitting next to the fire, blinking up at her. Jon had bottles of ink on the table, as well as a few pieces of crumpled up paper. It was as if he was struggling to write a letter. Her eyes caught _Sansa_ , written and scribbled out several times. They were but cousins now, Dany thought. If the secret was revealed, they could have each other. In a way that he didn’t want her, Dany thought bitterly. 

When they had laid together on the boat, she had felt loved for the first time since she’d left Daario in Meeren. But in hindsight, she remembered Jon’s nervous face, his hesitant touches. He had never wanted her, she thought sadly. He would never give her what she wanted, not in that way. 

“What did you want to say to me?” Dany asked as Jon turned around to face her. 

He swallowed. “I wanted to tell you I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I had known we were related before I went South, I would have never laid with you, or hurt you that way. It was unkind of me.” 

Dany took a deep breath. She’d suspected he’d only laid with her for her armies, and now she had proof. “And this is supposed to make me feel better?” she asked. All the fire she’d had in her argument with Tyrion seemed to have sapped out of her. 

Jon shook his head. “No, I didn’t think it would. I just wanted you to understand. I had to keep my family safe, Daenerys. Can you understand that?” 

Family. It all came back to family. She had none. 

“Are you not my family as well?” she asked him, heat rising in her chest. “You should come South, rule Westeros with me,” she rushed out, as the idea entered her head. They could rule together. She could still have her throne. 

“I won’t do that, Dany,” Jon told her, stepping back. “The Starks are my family first. And I don’t want that throne. I’ve never wanted it.” 

She felt hurt. She was the only other Targaryen in the world, why couldn’t he see how important they should be to each other? 

“So you want to stay here, in the snow, for the rest of your years?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “This is all you want?” 

His eyes shifted around, but he nodded. “Yes. I don’t ever wish to leave Winterfell again.” His face looked familiar, Dany realized. He wore the same expression on his face as they’d talked in the Dragonpit, when she was holding the dragon skull. They had talked about Targaryens there, she recalled. She thought about how she felt drawn to him. She remembered where their conversation had arrived at the end, Jon’s disappointed eyes echoing in her head. 

“I will take your opinion into account when I decide what to do with your family,” she told him, and turned to walk out the door. She knew what she needed to do. Dany rushed through the snow, and did not stop until she was back in her tent. 

She looked at the flames dancing in her firepit. She only had one option now, if she wanted a legacy. All that was left was to pursue it. And she would, she thought passionately. She thought of Jon’s disappointed face, of Sansa Stark's eyes boring over Jon's shoulder as she greeted him in the yards of Winterfell, of Arya and Gendry hugging. This was the only way left to achieve her goal, to seize her destiny. 

Dany would not let the opportunity pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a toughy for me. I hope you guys enjoy! Next chapter will have a new POV !


	9. Brienne of Tarth I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A knighting is awarded. Tensions rise. Jaime must make a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone! This one's long, and begins setting up the endgame. I hope you all enjoy!  
> Also, recognizable dialogue from 8x02. I couldn't leave out my own interpretation of my favorite scene!

Brienne hurried through the rows of tents, looking for a familiar face. She’d been sleeping in her tent for the last few hours and had woken up in a panic. She had been relieved to get outside and see the sun was still shining, giving her a few more hours until the fighting would begin again. 

She turned a corner and saw Podrick sitting amongst a few people she already knew, surrounding a small fire. He was laughing along to something Tormund had said, who was roaring with laughter himself. Arya was on his other side, talking to the Hound in a much quieter voice. Brienne walked to join them, sitting beside Clegane just as he was saying, “You think you wanted revenge a long time, girl? I’ve been after it all my life. It’s all I care about.” 

Arya’s face tensed up. He continued, saying, “If we survive this godsforsaken war, do you know where I’m going? South, to kill my brother. Because I can’t let go.” 

“Maybe you should,” Arya countered. “I was going South to kill Cersei, yes, but then I heard about my brother, that there were Starks back in Winterfell. And that was more important to me than my revenge. You just need to find something more important, too.” 

The Hound laughed, a rough sound. “It’s easier for you when your family isn’t the cause of your pain.” 

Arya shrugged, her eyes finally seeing Brienne sitting nearby. “Maybe. But you can make a new family.” 

The Hound turned to see what she was looking at and laughed again when his eyes met Brienne’s. “And who do you expect to be my new family? Brienne of motherfucking Tarth?” 

Arya snorted. “You would never be worthy of such an honor.” Brienne’s heart lit. “But you were finding something before the Brotherhood found you. You could go back to that.” 

The Hound shook his head, looking back at Arya. “No, that’s over for me. I’m destined to die in this war. And if I’m not, I’ll die in King’s Landing. It will be a well won death.” 

“No death is well won,” Arya countered. “It’s just death.” 

The Hound huffed at that and lapsed into silence. Brienne looked at his profile. In the years since she’d defeated him at the base of the Eyrie, his face had aged. But he seemed calmer, more at peace. She’d never feel anything but annoyance at this man, but she wished he could find the peace that had eluded him for so long. Just so he’d stop fighting whoever he came across. 

Arya stood and came to sit next to Brienne on the log. She spoke softly. “Sansa sends her regards. She’s been handling a great deal in Winterfell, but she’s safe within the walls. The best thing we can do for her is to win this war.” Brienne let a breath loose. She had worried about leaving the girls alone in the castle, even if she was going to fight a war to keep them safe. But Arya remaining had reassured her that Sansa would be safe. 

When Brienne had first seen the girl, riding in on top of a massive direwolf, she had panicked for Sansa’s sake, alone in the castle. She had grown to like Ser Davos, found him an honorable man, but that did not mean she had to like leaving Sansa in his protection. But Arya was right. Sansa would always be in danger, as well as her siblings, unless this war was won. Brienne was in the right place, doing the right thing. 

If she reminded herself often enough, it had to feel true at one point. 

She looked at Arya. “And whatever it was you had to do, it’s done?” she asked. Brienne had tried not to pry into whatever the Stark girls were plotting, but she knew there was something. 

Arya nodded. “It’s all done. All we have to do is win this war, now,” she said, trying to joke. It fell flat as Brienne thought of all the death she’d seen. 

“The battle is tough, my lady,” she told Arya, face stern. “This foe is unlike any you have fought before. I do not tell you this to doubt your abilities, but to prepare you. I want you to stay close to me, at least for the first night.” 

“I understand,” Arya said. Brienne was surprised. She’d expected more of a fight from the younger Stark girl. The look must have appeared on her face, as Arya snorted and said, “I’m stubborn, I’m not stupid.” 

“I never said you were, my lady,” Brienne said, a smile ghosting her lips. “I leave with the Northern forces, just as the sun sets. Your brother amongst them. We go deep within the woods, just west of the tip of Long Lake. We make the first stand against the dead at that point.” 

Arya bit her lip. “Have we lost many?” 

Brienne sighed, and said, “Yes. Hundreds most nights, thousands on the worst. The battle is very spread out, making it hard when a pair will wander off. And the cold gets a lot of them. Especially the Southerners and the Eossi.” 

“Is there anything we can do?” Arya asked. “I know Sansa and her sewing circle are still making warmer clothes, but that takes time.” 

“The clothing helps, but you cannot teach a life of cold exposure,” Tormund called from across the fire. “These Southerners just don’t know what to do when a little snow falls.” 

Brienne ignored him and continued to only look at Arya. “Teach them about keeping your feet dry, as well as your head. That could help keep many of them alive.” 

Arya nodded. “I can go spread the word.” She stood, and squeezed Brienne’s shoulder as she passed. Brienne looked across at Podrick, who looked content in the dim light. She was proud of him, just as she was proud of the Stark girls. He’d come so far, experienced so much. If she was a Knight, she’d knight him, too, she thought. 

She was so lost in thought that she didn’t even hear Jaime approach until he was sitting next to her, their thighs touching. Brienne felt her cheeks pink as she looked over at him. With his hair washed and a few meals in him, he looked much better than the day he’d arrived in Winterfell. After Daenerys had given him her leave to remain, he had joined her in the training yards and had asked if he could fight with her. She had assumed he’d be leading the Lannister forces, but he passed the position off to Edmure Tully. 

She had accepted his offer, her heart beating fast. What did he mean by this? But there was no time to think about it, not in the midst of a war. 

“Hello Ser Jaime,” she greeted him, as he settled next to her. “What brings you over here?” 

“Wandering about with Tyrion, that’s all,” he told her, eyes looking across the fire where his younger brother had settled next to Podrick. “Trying to catch him up with the war, while also begging him to return to Winterfell. You know, the usual.” 

“He wants to fight, Jaime,” Brienne said softly. She was never one to deny someone the chance to defend oneself. “He is not a child. He has every right to fight in this war.” 

“I know, I know,” Jaime replied, sighing. “He’s still my younger brother. I want him safe.” 

“We’ll just need to keep an eye on him, then,” Brienne decided. Between her, Jaime, Arya, and Jon, no harm should come to Tyrion, as long as they were vigilant. 

“Sounds good to me,” Jaime told her, meeting her eyes. She tried not to react, but she could feel a blush gracing her cheeks again. 

“I brought food!” Arya called, reentering the camp, Gendry on her heels. They were both carrying a large pot of stew, bowls stuffed into Gendry’s other hand. 

The entire group rose and crowded around the pair as they handed out soup to all around. The last bit of food before the battle was always welcome, especially when it was warm. 

They all sat and ate, and a silence fell over the camp, until Jon entered. He looked exhausted already, and his direwolf was at his heels. There was a piece of paper clutched in his hand. He moved to sit between Gendry and Arya, who sat at Brienne’s other side. 

She tried to not overhear their conversation, but the quiet of the campsite made it hard to avoid. Jon was whispering, “I’m sending him back to Sansa, telling her and Bran to continue their plan.” Arya’s response was too soft for Brienne to hear, but Jon hissed back at her, saying, “I am sure about this. When we get back to Winterfell, we can all talk it out.” 

Brienne tried to bang her spoon loudly, to distract the others from the conversation. She would always protect the Starks and their secrets. 

Tormund laughed at her. “Is this food not good enough for you, my Lady?” he asked, in a mocking tone. 

She scoffed at him. “I’ve eaten worse, and you know it. That journey to Castle Black was no picnic, as you very well know.” 

“How long did it take to get Sansa that far North?” Jaime asked, looking across the fire at her. 

“Several weeks,” Brienne told him. “We had to find a third horse, and in the midst of winter, that was not easy to do while avoiding all Bolton forces.” 

Jaime grimaced. “I have heard horror stories about the bastard, so I can only imagine how badly his forces behaved.” 

“They were not honorable,” Pod announced, placing his bowl and spoon on the ground. 

“And you are?” Tyrion asked, snorting. “One day you will be Ser Podrick the Honorable! Better than Ser Podrick, the Large Cocked!” 

Brienne snorted soup through her mouth, as the others roared with laughed. Even Gendry was chuckling. Men, she thought. At least until she turned, and saw Arya chuckling as well. 

Jon had stood up, and was attaching the letter to a pack on Ghost’s chest. Brienne left the crowd and went to stand by him. “Writing to Lady Sansa?” she asked, coming to pause at his side. 

Jon nodded. “Aye. Talking about what we are to do after we survive this war,” he joked weakly. Brienne hummed, and took him in. This effort had all been led by him, and now that it was here, Jon Snow looked exhausted. 

She opened her mouth to inquire after his health, but before she could, a third shadow joined them. Brienne turned to see a man she’d never met before, but recognized him by his appearance. “Beric,” Jon greeted him, turning to see him as well. “What brings you over here?” 

“Just nerves, Lord Snow,” Beric responded. His eye covering had icicles near the bottom. “I still believe the Lord of Light will see us through this journey, one way or another. I just fear I will not be here to see it.” 

“If anyone can see us through this war, I would be thankful,” Brienne told him. “Lord of Light, or someone else entirely.” 

“Do not underestimate him, Lady Brienne,” Beric told her, eye narrowed. “He saved Lord Snow, and led us all here, together. His power is strong.” 

Brienne looked back at Jon, who’s mouth had widened slightly. He looked shocked. He had been saved by the Lord of Light, if that had been the power the red witch had used. Brienne knew that Jon already knew that. Why was he so shocked? 

Before Jon could vocalize his thoughts, a horn blew. Wights were spotted already. Brienne turned to see Podrick, Jaime, and the others already on their feet. She called, “Meet me and the rest of the Northern soldiers just North of the body pit!” 

She didn’t wait to see their reactions before turning and rushing to her tent. She had Oathkeeper strapped on her side, as she always did, but she had a dragonglass dagger she’d forgotten in her tent. She dodged soldiers running in all directions, and slid inside the tent. The only possession remaining was the dagger, sitting next to her cot. She grabbed it quickly and rushed back to join the rest of her soldiers. 

By the time Brienne had arrived, the Northern soldiers were standing in clumps, all looking determined. Another night of fighting, but at least they were getting used to it, Brienne thought. Podrick, Tyrion, and Jaime were standing together at the head, Jaime helping Tyrion put on amour. Jon, Gendry, Arya, and her wolf were standing with Tormund, who was to lead the Wilding forces, and Edd, who led the remaining forces of the Night’s Watch.

Brienne walked to stand with Arya and the others. Jon was giving instructions. “We need to hold the curve of the lake, so focus on that. If they get much closer to the camps, we’ll risk some getting through and heading south towards Winterfell. Their forces are fewer and we must keep the line here.” There were affirmatives through the group, and he turned to face Brienne again. “Are your forces ready, Lady Brienne?” 

“Yes, my lord,” she replied. “We’ll head to our point.” Jon nodded in agreement. 

He turned to Arya. “Stay with the Northern forces. I have to check on the other commanders, but I’ll be there.” Arya nodded, but before Jon could turn away, she hugged him tightly. Brienne averted her eyes, trying to give them privacy for a moment. 

After Arya let go, she turned to Brienne, looking determined. “Let’s go.”

“What about your wolf?” Brienne asked, looking down at the huge wolf that was larger than the girl it stood beside her. 

“She’ll lead her pack out herself,” Arya told her, before turning to the wolf. “Find us out there, Nymeria.” The wolf licked Arya’s hand as if understanding. Brienne could spend decades with the Starks, but she would never understand their connection with these wolves. She had been nervous back at Castle Black, watching the huge white wolf follow Sansa like a shadow, but he had been nothing but protective. It still took her some time to get used to him, hulking white fur and silent red eyes. Arya’s wolf was nearly as big and was grayer in color, but they both had similar temperaments. Quiet yet protective. Brienne could relate to both. She turned and walked back to the soldiers, Arya behind her. 

Brienne led the way to the Northern troops and shouted to get their attention. A hush rushed across the gathered soldiers. “Northerners, head out,” she called. 

The walk towards their assigned fighting mark was difficult, with wights jumping out at them sporadically. They had to remain silent, and constantly on edge. It made for an uncomfortable journey. Brienne had Podrick to her left, and Arya to her right, meaning she was overly aware of their presence, and worried about their safety. She knew it was better to only focus on oneself during a battle, but she’d never managed to do that. She hadn’t died yet, so she considered that a victory. 

Jaime and Tyrion were following them, and she could hear them talking quietly. If she was distracted by Arya and Podrick, Brienne could only imagine the fear Jaime had for Tyrion. She still thought she was right. Tyrion was a man grown, and Jaime had no right to stop him from doing what he thought best. But she understood his fear, as well, eyes sliding sideways to Podrick. She’d never had a younger brother, but she assumed it would feel like what she felt towards Pod. Affection, often tempered with annoyance. But really, all she wanted was to keep Pod safe. She imagined that’s exactly how Jaime felt towards Tyrion. 

She was pulled out of her thoughts but a wight sprinting out of the darkness, running right for them. Before she could reach for Oathkeeper, Arya had pulled out her dagger and slit its bone throat. The wight crumbled to pieces in front of them, the Valaryian steel destroying it completely. Arya tucked her dagger away, looking smug. “It’s not always that easy,” Brienne warned her under her breath. “One at a time is manageable, but when there’re dozens running at you, you have to be careful.” Arya caught her eyes and nodded, looking determined. 

By the time they arrived at their mark, they’d lost a pair of soldiers. The wights had run at them randomly, and at the front, it was easy to see them, but the soldiers in the back of their group of several hundred were less lucky. The mark they were guarding was just west of Long Lake, more than halfway along its shores. It was a practical point to defend, far north of their camp but not too far into the woods like several of the other groups. There were no wights nearby at all when they arrived, dropping their packs and building fires to keep warm. Brienne could hear fighting in the distance, but nothing close by. The sky was so dark and cloudy that it was difficult to see beyond a few dozen yards. Everyone was on edge, with very little conversation across the camp, waiting for something to come their way. 

Nearly thirty minutes after they arrived, Brienne glimpsed a group of people coming north to meet them. It was Jon, carrying a torch, leading members of the Night’s Watch, including his friend Edd, who Brienne remembered from Castle Black. Jon walked to greet Brienne. “How was the journey here?” He asked Brienne as he inserted the torch into the ground.

“We lost two,” she told him, stepping closer to the flames. They were small, but the warmth was welcome. “Since we arrived, it’s been quiet.” 

Jon nodded. “Makes sense. I sent more Unsullied to the west, to help the Lannisters. More wights seem to be drawn that way. I sent Beric and the other remaining Brotherhood with Banners with the Tullys, to hold the ground to the north.” 

Brienne sighed. “Then all we must do here is to wait.” 

The group lapsed into silence. They’d been fighting this war for weeks, and it seemed as if they waited longer in the cold then they actually fought. It was like the cold was trying to wait them out, freeze them and make them join the looming army of the undead. 

Brienne ended leaning against a tree, Jaime and Podrick on each side of her. Every breath she took felt as if the cold air was pouring down her throat. The area west of the lake was loosely populated by trees, all of which were tall and eerie in the darkness. It was almost worse this way than in an actual forest, where it would be too dark to see anything at all. Tyrion, Jon, and Edd were leaning against a tree to the north of them, also silent. Gendry and Arya were sitting closer to the lake, both with their backs against a tree. No one spoke, all lost in their own thoughts. 

Brienne hated the waiting. It seemed to get worse with every day that passed. Jon had planned these battles not to defeat all of the wights, but to try to draw out the white walkers, and kill them one by one. Jon had told them weeks ago that this path would end with more soldiers dead over a longer period of time, but would they would have less dead than if the White Walkers attacked all at once with the Night King. There had still not been a glimpse of the Great Other that now rode a dragon, but Brienne feared that he would appear just went it would hurt them the most. 

Brienne was lost in her thoughts when she saw movement in the corner of her eye. She jumped up, shouting, “To arms!” She could hear steel being drawn from every direction as the soldiers prepared themselves for the battle ahead. Brienne couldn’t tell how long they waited that night before the wights finally attacked. Only that once they started to come, it seemed as if they’d never stop.

Brienne herself reached for Oathkeeper and rushed towards the oncoming wights. They were streaming through the woods, appearing suddenly through the dark and foggy night. Their terrifying skeletons ran right for the living, as if resenting their very existence. 

She didn’t know how long she continued to swing her sword, stabbing and swiping the wights away. When she got them cleanly, they would disintegrate completely. It would have been more unnerving if they weren’t flying at her faster than birds. At some point, she backed into Jaime completely, and they fought back to back. It was exhilarating, even as she felt barely aware of his presence besides his heavy breathing and the pressure on her back. 

As she would lunge forward, he would lean back. It was as if they, like the two swords they bore, used to be two parts of a whole. Brienne did not know how everyone else was doing. She was barely aware of Jaime, let alone Podrick or Arya. 

With the wights came even colder air, but as Brienne pulled her sword back, she noted that there was a White Walker with them. One of the first she’d seen. He was walking through the battle, striking down all those who dared oppose him. Brienne rushed forward and blocked his sword from killing a Northman already on the ground. 

He parred her sword, and Brienne regained her footing and rushed him again. Her move surprised him, and Brienne was able to slice Oathkeeper straight through his head. He shattered into a thousand small, icy pieces, and relief flew through Brienne’s chest. She stood, frozen for a moment. She could see not only human wights rushing through the trees, but also huge skeletal direwolves, bears, and even some sort of giant ice spiders. 

She rushed towards one of the bears, which roared so fiercely at her she could barely hear the shouts and screams of the battlefield. Brienne held her ground and let the bear charge at her, before stepping aside at the last moment and swiping her sword along the bear’s back. She doubted such an action would be considered honorable, but with a giant undead bear, she found that she didn’t care. 

She turned to inspect the battlefield. Most of the undead direwolves and ice spiders were either dead or running off to the distance. It seemed as if the flood of wights, both human and beast, was finally about to let up. With the grounds clearing, she could finally see Arya, struggling on the ground with nearly a dozen wights on top of her. Brienne panicked. She had tried to warn her, she thought, rushing towards the younger girl. 

“Arya!” she shouted, her voice cracking from misuse. She ran towards the wights, and stabbed her sword through their bodies. Several disappeared, and few were pushed back. Brienne rushed at them, swinging her sword as quickly as she could. She could only hear their terrible screams. 

But the time she had killed the last one, she turned around to see Jaime using Widow’s Wail to kill the others still on Arya. 

It was not until he destroyed the last one that Arya stood. She had scratches down her face, and looked panicked. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” Brienne soothed her, walking closer. Arya looked around, eyes wide. “What is it?” 

“Where’s my dagger?” she asked, searching the ground nearby. 

“Here,” Jaime rasped out, picking the dagger up from the ground. Arya rushed and grabbed it, still looking frazzled. 

“Thank you,” she told Jaime, far kinder to him than she had been before. Jaime smiled weakly at her, also looking exhausted. 

It seemed as if the rush was over, Brienne realized, glancing around. The sky looked brighter, suggesting that morning was coming. The fog that had also accompanied the wights was also fading away. There were still a few wights fighting the soldiers, but they seemed to be stragglers, not the main horde. 

There were few soldiers that Brienne could pick out from a crowd, but she saw a number of Northerners and Knight Watch brothers dead on the ground. She rushed towards her soldiers, trying to pick out Podrick and the others. “Pod!” she called, trying not to panic. 

“Over here, my lady!” she heard from her left. She turned and saw Podrick, blood on his face, reaching down with Gendy to help Tyrion up from the ground. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, coming to stand next to the pair of them. 

“Yes,” Pod said, looking drained. “We almost got overwhelmed, but Gendry’s hammer saved us.”

“It’s pretty handy,” Gendry admitted, leaning on the hammer as he struggled to get his balance. Tyrion snorted, brushing the dirt off his chest. He looked no worse for the wear, besides a bit of blood on his cheek. 

“Idiot,” Arya muttered, before running up and hugging him. Brienne hadn’t realized she’d followed them. She would have to stop being surprised by the quiet girl one day. 

Brienne looked around, wondering where Jon was. “Have either of you seen Jon?” she asked Podrick. 

Pod shook his head. “I lost him in the chaos.” 

“He rushed off after his Night’s Watch brother,” Tyrion told her, looking worried. “One of those great undead direwolves got ahold of him.” 

Arya overheard and moved to let go of Gendry. “Stay here,” Brienne told her. “I’m not telling Sansa I lost track of two of you at once,” she added, turning to walk through the trees. She could hear Arya grumbling under her breath, but Brienne would rather have her unhappy than dead. Jaime fell in step with her. “He’ll be alright,” Jaime told her. “Starks are hard to kill.” 

Brienne snorted. “You would know.” She looked at him just in time to see him wiggle his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes. She would never understand how he dealt with trauma with mirth. It was not her way. 

They walked quietly through the woods, the sun slowly rising in the distance. She and Jaime rolled over dozens of soldiers, but none were Jon. They were nearly at the lake when they caught sight of a pack of wolves, surrounding two figures lying on the ground. 

“My lord?” Brienne called, rushing to get closer. Before she could approach, the wolves began growling. 

“Nymeria, calm down,” Jon’s weak voice called through the noise of the wolves. With his words, the wolves quieted down. 

Brienne walked quickly to kneel next to Jon. He was lying out on the ground, his leg bleeding. His Knight’s watch brother, Edd, was lying next to him, dead. Jon’s face was covered with tears and dirt. 

“What happened?” Brienne asked gently. 

“Some sort of direwolf wight dragged Edd away from the fight. I followed. He was screaming so loud,” Jon whispered out, reaching to rub the dirt from his face. “But the wolf had friends. We got surrounded. I killed a few, but I would have died if Nymeria’s pack hadn’t heard me screaming.” He looked up at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Is Arya alright?” 

Brienne nodded. “Yes, she’s alright. Let’s get you back to the others, and you can see her, too.” 

She reached for Jon, and saw Jaime do the same on his other side. He grunted as he put weight on his leg for the first time. “We’ll get you back to the camp, my lord,” Brienne told him. She’d carry him herself if she needed to. As they began to walk, Nymeria and her pack turned and headed south, back towards the camp. She and Jaime started leading Jon back, when he turned back. 

“Goodbye, brother,” he said softly, eyes on Edd. 

“We’ll come back for him,” Jaime told him, softer than Brienne could have imagined. 

“Please do,” Jon said, turning back. “He would hate to come back as a wight. Blue was never his color.” 

They remained silent as they walked back, all worried about wights returning. But the sun was nearly visible now. The sky was still cloudy, but pink streaks were cutting through their darkness, lighting up the entire sky. 

By the time they got back to the others, the clouds were beginning to move away as well. The air was still as cold as it had been in the black of night. When they got back to Arya and the others, she rushed at Jon and hugged him tightly. “Thank you for bringing my brother back,” Arya told her, eyes barely visible over Jon’s shoulder. Brienne nodded back at her. 

She looked around at her soldiers. She chose two of the most well-rested, two men from the Flint clans, and sent them back for Edd’s body. As they rushed away, Brienne sighed, eyes looking at her charges. They had been several hundred soldiers when they left the camp, but it seemed as if they’d lost at least fifty over the night. This had been one of the worst nights of the war yet. And it would only get worse, Brienne feared. There had only been one White Walker. What if they had to fight more? It seemed as if they would never win this war. 

It was a long walk back to camp, with no one willing to leave Jon behind. The exhaustion was almost palpable, hoving over the group like a hazy fog. By the time they returned to the camp, it seemed as if the majority of the soldiers had returned already. The Hound was standing near the closest tent, looking grave. Brienne passed Jon off to Gendry and Jaime and went to meet him, Arya following close.

“How was your night?” Brienne asked, pausing to stand next to him. 

The Hound huffed. “Fucking shitty. Got attacked by a couple of the Walkers. Lost Berric, and hundreds of others.” 

“What?” Arya exclaimed. “For good?” 

The Hound nodded. “Aye, fucking finally. No red god to save him this time, girl.” 

“Come on, Arya, let’s go get warm,” Brienne encouraged her, pulling her away from the Hound. They entered one of the nearby kitchen tents and sat together on a bench. Arya was staring at the ground intently, as if she was trying not to see. “Are you alright?” Brienne asked her gently. 

“I will be,” Arya said, lifting her head to meet Brienne’s gaze. “Beric was on my list, for a long time. I thought I’d be happy when he was dead, but I keep thinking about what I told the Hound. He’s just dead. It’s just over.” 

Brienne felt her lips curl up. She’d worried, when Arya had first arrived back in Winterfell, that the girl had been too far gone, that she’d been through too much. But she still had a big heart, Brienne thought. “All death is hard to process, even when you don’t like someone very much,” she said softly. She thought back to Renly’s death, to Stannis’ at her own hand. “It doesn’t always feel like a victory. It’s just an end.” 

Arya nodded. “Exactly.” Before she could say anything else, Pod entered the tent and walked towards them. “We’re starting to burn the bodies,” he said in a rush. “Jon wanted you there, Arya.” 

Arya stood quickly and followed him out of the tent. Brienne had no choice but to follow her. The pyres were full of fire, with bodies piled high. It had been one of the worst nights yet. Arya came to a stop next to Jon, who was holding a torch, prepared to light the closest pyre. Brienne stopped nearby, standing next to Jaime, who smiled at her softly, and Tyrion, who was staring across the pits towards Daenerys Targaryen who was flanked by Jorah Mormont and Grey Worm. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Jon called, somewhat hoarsely, out to the crowd. “We are here today to say goodbye to more friends, more fellow soldiers. Brave fighters, lost too soon to the terror of the undead. We will honor their sacrifice, and continue to push forward to a victory.” Cheers were heard across the camp. The soldiers still believed, Brienne thought, surprised. She hoped this faith would continue, or the war would only become more difficult to fight. 

Jon stepped forward and lit the pyre. Brienne watched as Edd, Beric, and many others she’d never get to know, burned into ashes that floating into the air, sending them back to the earth from which they came.  
A silence fell over the group. Brienne could see several soldiers praying silently, either to the Old Gods, the New Gods, or even R’hllor. Brienne made a quick prayer to the Warrior, asking for strength to continue this fight. 

She was starting to think that wouldn’t be enough.

It was not until several weeks later that the war changed at all. It had been endless fighting, but the White Walkers themselves had not appeared again. It was as if they were testing their limits that first night, to see if they could survive. It unnerved Brienne that they had the concept of strategy, but there was little else they could do but keep fighting back. 

She was unsure if Jon would have said anything at all, if it had not been for a small riot that took place between the Wildlings and the Knights of the Vale. They had gotten on very well since the Battle of the Bastards, and there was a great deal of surprise when Tormund and Lord Royce had to force them apart.  
Jon had called all of the commanders to the battle tent, eyes looking tired. He’d been walking with a limp ever since he’d fought the undead direwolves, but he was stubbornly continuing to fight each night. Brienne was nearly at the point of writing Sansa and asking her to say something. 

She was crowded around the battlemap with the other commanders. Jaime was on her left, and Tormund on her right. Jon was leaning against his sword, looking worn out already. “We have come to an impasse,” he announced, face looking grim. “This strategy is not working for the soldiers anymore. We cannot outlast the Others, as we originally planned.” 

He swallowed, looking around, but continued on. “The commanders need to return to Winterfell, and regroup with my brother. He has a secondary plan, one that I was uneasy pursuing, but I think it is all we have left at this point, if we want to survive.” 

“Your brother? The cripple?” Jorah Mormont asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Aye,” Jon said, face hard. “He spent years north of the Wall, studying magic with an instructor. He told me he has an idea that might work.” 

“Might as well,” Lord Tully muttered. “Anything would be better than losing control of the men because they’re fighting a pointless battle.” 

“We should leave tomorrow,” Jon continued. “It’s already too late to leave today, and that will give me time to write to Lady Sansa and let her know we’re coming.” 

“Her Grace will want to come as well,” Mormont added. “After I let her know what was discussed here.” 

A glimpse of annoyance passed over Jon’s face, but he quickly relaxed. “And her input would be welcomed. Let her know when we plan to leave, so she can plan accordingly with the dragons.” 

Jorah nodded, and Jon motioned for a dismissal. The others began filing out of the tent, but Brienne walked to stand next to Jon. “Did you think about what I said earlier?” she asked, stopping by his side.

“Aye, I did, Brienne. But this is my war. I cannot stop now,” Jon told her, looking up to meet her eyes. “Bran has let me know that his plan involves me, so I have no choice.” 

“Maybe just for tonight?” Brienne pressed. “Everyone needs a night off, my lord. You included.” She really didn’t want to go to Sansa, but if he refused, he would leave her no choice. 

He sighed, and nodded. “Aye, I’ll stay here. It will give me more time to coordinate our trip. It’ll be hard to hunt down enough horses.” 

Brienne breathed a sigh of relief. “I can lend Pod to you, if you need an extra hand.” 

“No, take him with you. He’s getting good with his sword,” Jon observed. “I don’t want to take time away from him when he could be getting even better.” 

Brienne chuckled. “He would appreciate that, my lord.” She gave him a slight bow and turned to leave. Before she left the tent, Jon called out to her. “Be careful out there, Brienne.” 

“I will, my lord,” she called back. The winds were blowing hard today, making the snow that was falling even harder to walk through the snow. Brienne pulled her cloak tight against her throat and tried to hurry. She had told Jaime and Podrick earlier that she’d meet them in one of the kitchen tents, where at least they could be warm. 

The tent was strangely empty. It was likely most of the soldiers were still asleep, she realized. Brienne searched for Jaime and Podrick and saw them sitting at a table with Tyrion and Tormund, all eating bowls of broth. The meeting with Jon had been the first place Brienne had gone after she’d woken up, so she gratefully took a bowl as well and headed to sit with the others. She squeezed in between Jaime and Podrick, offering them both smiles as she sat down. 

“Nice of you to join us, Lady Brienne,” Tyrion called from across the table. He had a scattering of new scars on his face, but look relatively pleasant this morning. Tormund, on the other hand, did not even look up from his food. He had lost the upper part of his left ear last week, and still wore a bandage around his head. 

“Good morning,” she greeted them all, before starting to eat her own food. It was silent for a few moments while they all ate, warming their insides. The winter only seemed to be getting worse, and the cold was almost impossible to avoid. Even in front of a warm fire, Brienne could still feel a chill. She doubted she would ever truly feel warm again. 

When they all finished, one of the serving girls who had tagged along collected their bowls, and handed Tyrion a pitcher of ale, before saying, “We’re all headed out for a rest. If anyone else comes in, let them know we’ll be back in a few hours.” Tyrion saluted her, and happily filled up both his cup and the others on the table as well.

Even Brienne felt grateful for the warm drink, and sipped deeply, letting the ale warm her insides. After Tyrion set his own cup down, he looked around at them all. “I’m surprised we’re all still alive,” he admitted. “Though between us all, we have survived a number of battles. Ser Jaime here was fabled the hero of the Siege of Pyke, amongst other things. ” 

Jaime chuckled. “You and Podrick both survived the Battle of the Blackwater.”

“And I wouldn’t have done it without him!” Tyrion saluted Pod with his cup. Podrick, even now, blushed in the candlelight. 

“And Giantsbane here survived both the Battle of the Bastards and the Battle at Hardhome,” Jaime added. 

Tormund looked up, looking pleased. “That’s right Kingkiller!” 

Jaime snorted, “It’s Kingslayer, for the tenth time.” 

“Same thing,” Tormund shrugged, looking comical with his bandage. “There was a king, you killed him. Slayer makes it sound like you killed a dragon.” 

“Technically, he did,” Tyrion interjected. Brienne rolled her eyes. Once the three of them got started, it was hard to stop them. Podrick was watching them, deep in his cups, eyes wide. 

“That’s not important,” Jaime waved away the debate. “We were discussing the many ways we have all survived death. Brienne kept me alive in the Riverlands during the worst fighting of the War of the Five Kings, and she fought the Hound, and, she killed a king herself.” 

“Stannis wasn’t crowned,” she muttered, trying to control her blush. 

“Still, you did it,” Jaime insisted. His eyes looked at her softly. Brienne couldn’t look away, but it felt like too much. “Lady Brienne, the Kingslayer.” 

“She’s not a Ser? The kingkiller is a Ser, and she’s not?” Tormund asked loudly.

“Women can’t be knights,” Brienne dismissed him. She’d accepted it long ago. 

“Why not?”

“Tradition,” Brienne explained. 

“Fuck tradition!” Tormund roared, flinging his ale from his cup.

“I don’t even want to be a knight,” Brienne insisted. Maybe if she said it enough, it would become true. 

With his cup raised high, Tormund kept talking. “I’m not a king. But if I were, I’d knight you ten times over!” Brienne hoped he meant that, and not the innuendo she saw in his eyes. 

“You don’t need a king,” Jaime said, exasperated. “Any knight can make another knight.” He paused for a moment, before setting his cup down on the table. His eyes had lit up. “I’ll prove it.” 

He stood, and drew Widow’s Wail from his sword belt. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.” 

She scoffed, panic rushing through her chest. What was he doing? Was this just another joke? Would she stand and he would laugh at her, as so many knights had before? But Jaime looked serious. He didn’t move. “Do you want to be a knight or not? Kneel.” 

Jaime Lannister had been many things since she’d first met him, but she’d never known him to be cruel. 

Brienne set her cup down and knelt before Jaime, heart pounding. She trusted him. But experience had told her not to expect much from men, at least when it came to respect. 

But with the silence in the tent, Jaime raised his sword and placed in on her shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” Her fight with the Hound crossed her mind. He switched shoulders. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” Stannis’ face echoed in her memory. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.” Sansa Stark’s face, dirty and pale. “Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

Brienne stood and looked at Jaime. His eyes were even softer than before, and she could see pride shining through them. He had really done it. She was really, truly, a knight. 

She was pulled away from her thoughts with clapping. Tyrion, Tormund, and Pod were all standing, beaming at her. “Ser Brienne of Tarth! A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms!” Tyrion exclaimed. 

Podrick was nearly tearing up, she noted. Her strongest supporter, her closest friend, she smiled back at him fondly. One day, she’d knight him as well, she thought, her heart soaring. He was a real squire now. 

She looked back at Jaime, who had joined the others in clapping. He was still smiling at her, and her heart lept at the sight of his face. She mouthed thank you at him, and he nodded in response. 

It wasn’t even the knighting itself that made her tear up. It was the respect that came along with it, she thought, wiping away a stray tear. It was all she ever wanted. Respect from her peers. 

Jaime had given it to her. 

Hours later, after more drinks, another nap, and plenty of nerves, Brienne found herself leading the Northern soldiers back into battle. There were about a hundred now, but with Jaime, Arya, Podrick, Tyrion, and Gendry at her side, she felt invincible. 

But it was the night where everything went wrong. Their journey to their mark was difficult, with thick snows raining down on them. Wights attacked them almost continually since they left the camp. But the soldiers left were experienced in fighting the undead, and for a while, it seemed as if nothing could touch them. Brienne shouted instructions that seemed to get lost over the howling wind, but the soldiers were handling themselves well. 

Just before they arrived at the mark, a loud roar was heard in the distance. “Stop!” Brienne shouted to the soldiers behind her. It had sounded like a dragon, and not a friendly one. Was it the Night King? Brienne didn’t want to be the first to find out. 

They were standing, frozen in fear, when Podrick shouted, “Look!” and pointed up to the sky. Just peeking down from the clouds was the undead dragon, huge and looking icy amongst the clouds. It roared again, and then unleashed an icy blue flame. 

“Run!” Brienne roared, and hurried her group towards the lake, as far as they could get from the dragon. The fire it was breathing was not fire, but ice. It was still destroying trees behind them, Brienne realized as she glanced back. It was just as deadly as the flames of the two living dragons. 

They ran as quickly as they could through the thick snow. By the time they reached the banks of the lake, Brienne was out of breath. But the dragon was far in the distance, terrorizing the other parts of the army. As Brienne was catching her breath, she heard Arya shout, “It’s Daenerys!” 

Brienne glanced up from her position with her hands on her knees. She could see the other two dragons streaking through the air, before one of them veered off. The largest dragon directed flames at his undead brother, who roared and attacked back. 

“Will she be alright?” Jaime asked Tyrion, who looked worse than the rest of them. 

He nodded, still out of breath. “She’ll be alright. She has two dragons to his one, remember?” Brienne didn’t want to mention how one of the dragons seemed to have disappeared. 

“At least we’re safe here,” Pod noted, looking around. Brienne joined him. They were not far from where she and Jaime had found Jon, many weeks ago. 

“Still, be careful,” Brienne warned, raising her voice so it would carry. “You never know when the wights can appear.” 

“Which is apparently right now!” Arya shouted. Brienne turned back and saw dozens of wights rushing towards them, following another White Walker, riding on an undead horse. 

Brienne drew her sword and rushed towards the Walker, Jaime just steps ahead of her. She lunged for the undead figure, who urged the horse back, leaving Brienne swiping at empty air. She turned and found several wights rushing at her. She quickly cut them down, turning to see Jaime and Tyrion both fighting off the White Walker. She rushed behind and stabbed him straight through the back. 

She leaned over to catch her breath, but before she could, she heard a terrible scream. Brienne pulled herself up, and turned to see Podrick, laying out on the ground, a second White Walker above him. “No!” She screamed. She rushed at him, sword drawn and attacked. The Walker parried her thrust, but Arya came up behind him and stabbed him just as Brienne had with the first one. 

She didn’t pause to watch him shatter but rushed to Pod. He was bleeding out from a wound on his chest, and Brienne knew it was too much blood. “Pod, Pod, you’re alright,” she told him, kneeling at his side. “You’ve done so well.” 

“At least...one of us got to be a knight,” her squire croaked up at her, a weak smile on his face. Brienne shook her head, feeling tears streaming down her face. 

“No, you have to be alright, Pod. You have to!” she begged. Faintly in the distance, she could hear Jaime and the others still fighting.

“It’s okay Brienne. You’ll be okay,” Pod whispered, growing quieter. She reached out to touch his face and felt his last breath slip out. Her eyes were blurry with tears.

“Brienne!” She heard. She turned and saw a third Walker running at her. Her sword was useless, lying on the ground. It was too far. She’d never reach it in time. But Jaime appeared out of nowhere and attacked the Walker. Brienne took the opportunity to stand and grab her sword and joined Jaime in shattering the figure. 

She stood, eyes still blurry, when she heard a sound which sent the day from bad to worse. Across the clearing, Tyrion screamed. 

“No!” Jaime shouted, and ran toward his brother. Brienne followed, sword drawn. One of the wights had thrusted a sword into Tyrion’s gut, and he was falling to the ground. Brienne quickly stuck through the wights around them, as Jaime fell to the ground. 

Brienne looked around, making sure the other wights were being handled. Arya and Gendry were killing a few nearby, and the other northern soldiers were handling the rest of them, including an undead bear. Surprisingly, it seemed as if Nymeria’s pack had arrived as well. They were standing on guard at the edge of the clearing, in case more wights appeared. The attack seemed to be dying down. 

“Tyrion, Tyrion, please, don’t go,” Jaime begged. Brienne could hear the echo of her own words to Pod. “Please don’t leave me, Tyrion.” He pulled the sword out of his stomach, but there was too much blood.

“Jaime…” Tyrion whispered, reaching for his face. “My big brother,” he said, emotionally. Jaime sobbed in response. “I love you,” Tyrion whispered, and then his hand went limp, and Brienne felt sick. She reached for Jaime, however, and he grabbed onto her and continued to sob into her shoulder. She felt her own tears fall as well. 

She didn’t know how they sat there, but eventually, Arya and Gendry joined them and sat silently nearby. Nymeria came and sat next to Brienne, rubbing alongside her. The direwolf must have felt her grief, Brienne realized. She knotted her fingers in Nymeria’s fur, trying to comfort Jaime as best she could. It was not until the sun rose, breaking its way through the clouds, that Jaime quieted.

“We should go back,” Arya said softly. “We need to know how bad the damage was.” 

Brienne nodded. She touched Jaime gently. “She’s right,” she said hoarsely. “There’s no time to lose.” 

Jaime nodded, eyes distant. They both stood, and Jaime reached for Tyrion.”I’ll carry him,” Jaime said, voice rough. Brienne nodded and turned to see Pod’s body, moved closer to them. 

“I have Pod,” she told Gendry, before he could open his mouth. Her face looked like stone, scaring him off. He nodded, but stayed close the entire journey back to camp. They had lost about ten in clearing, and another dozen along the way. The silence of grief was almost worse than the silence of fear they’d felt last night. Brienne just kept thinking if Podrick and Tyrion had held on for one more night, they might not have been there at all. She was planning on taking Podrick back to Winterfell, and she had no doubt that Tyrion had been planning on coming as well. 

But it was too late. She felt tears rush down her cheeks again, feeling painful in the cold air. It didn’t feel real, the idea that Podrick was gone. She knew she would turn, calling for him, dozens of times before she would realize he was gone. And Tyrion...she’d never particularly liked Tyrion, but he was always good for a laugh, and he was Jaime’s younger brother. It would always sting.

Jon was waiting near the entrance to the camp, Daenerys at his side. She looked nearly as exhausted as Brienne felt. “Tyrion!” Daenerys cried when they came into view. She rushed to Jaime’s side, looking at her fromer Hand. “What happened?” she demanded, looking between her and Jaime.  
“We ran from the dragon,” Brienne said, leaning over to place Pod onto the ground. He looked so young now. “We ended up near the lake, but the Walkers found us anyway. We were attacked by three Walkers and dozens of wights. It was..too much,” Brienne admitting, looking at the ground. “We lost dozens, including Tyrion and Podrick.” 

Daenerys let out a sob, and turned on her heel and rushed away. Jon looked down at Pod, face heavy. “I should have let him stay here,” Jon whispered softly. 

Brienne wished he had, as well. 

She picked up Podrick again, and she and Jaime walked together to the fire pyres. Jon followed them, explaining what else had happened. “Daenerys saw the dragon in the sky, so she tried to attack. But Rhaegal refused to attack. After she lost control of him, all she could do was survive up there. And after she left, much of the camp got overwhelmed by wights. I fear that many have gotten through and are now headed toward Winterfell.” 

It was worse than she had expected, and it left her disheartened. How could a new plan help when Daenerys had lost control of one of her dragons? Would they need to fall back, protect Winterfell? Was all lost? Her heart sank as she lowered Podrick from her shoulder onto the pyre. She felt more hopeless than ever before. 

Jon moved towards the center, and cleared his throat. “We mourn the loss of more friends, more fellow soldiers. They will not die in vain,” he boomed. His eulogies were getting shorter each time, as Jon lost the energy himself. The number of dead spoke for itself. “I will be taking most of the commanders back to Winterfell, to regroup and come up with a new plan,” Jon added. A murmur was heard across the crowd. “But first, we mourn.” 

He handed a torch to both Brienne and Jaime, and both stepped forward, along with a dozen others, to light the fire. The flames licked Podrick’s face, and soon Brienne could not recognize him at all. Pain rushed through her chest. She had failed him. She would not stop, not until the dead were gone. For Pod’s sake. 

She stood with Jaime until the last flames faded away. The majority of the crowd had faded away, and the snow was getting thicker. If they wanted to head to Winterfell today, they would need to leave soon, before the snows got too thick. “Jaime,” she said softly. “Come inside. We need to get warm again before we leave for Winterfell.” 

“I’m not going,” Jaime said hoarsely, eyes still on the place Tyrion’s body had laid. 

“What?” Brienne asked, surprised. Jaime had come North, determined to stop the dead. What could have possibly changed now?

“I’m going back to King’s Landing,” he replied, still not meeting her eyes. 

“Back to Cersei?” she whispered.

At that, he finally turned to look at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked exhausted. “I have to, Brienne. She’s all I have left.” 

“What about me?” she whispered. She didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than she had with Pod’s body burning to a crisp, but this day was full of surprises, she thought darkly. 

“Brienne, I am not the man you think I am,” Jaime confessed, eyes darting around. “I am not a good man. I don’t deserve you, I could never deserve you. I am leaving you here in the middle of a war! I am the worst man imaginable. I don’t deserve your affection.” 

“You do!” Brienne insisted. “You may not have always been a good man, but you are now. You came north, gathered the Tully forces. You apologized to the Starks. Jaime, you have to believe me,” she pleaded. “You only want to go South because you lost Tyrion. Stay here, fight with me! Avenge your brother.” 

“I am a horrible man, who got his brother killed,” Jaime retorted. “I am going South, Brienne. You cannot stop me.” 

“But Jaime, I l-”

“No, Brienne,” he whispered. “Please, don’t.” 

He turned and stormed away, leaving her heartbroken. Brienne could feel the tears sliding down her face today, harsh and hot in the cold air. She felt more lost than ever. She had no squire, no friends, no love. All she had now was an empty knighthood and an empty heart.


	10. Samwell Tarly I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam worries. Daenerys reveals a secret. Arya has a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone! I've been distracted by real life- house sitting, job hunting, etc etc etc! But it's here. As Doctor Strange once said, we're in the endgame now! I hope everyone enjoys xx

Nearly three weeks later, Samwell Tarly walked through the thick snows to meet Bran in the Godswood. Winterfell was still awaiting Jon’s return, and as the days passed, nervousness grew across the castle. Daenerys and her dragons had returned nearly a week ago, with claims from the dragon queen that the rest of the party should have arrived already. 

Ser Davos, Theon Greyjoy, and Meera Reed had headed search parties that had not yet returned, either. Sam had asked to go along, but Davos had refused him, telling him he was needed in the castle. The waiting was driving Sam mad. He hadn’t wanted to go, not really, but knowing Jon and others might be just miles away, trapped underneath some snow, haunted him. 

Instead, he spent his time caring for the ill with Maester Wolkan and Sansa. Winterfell’s Lady had thrown herself into the work, and she seemed to do everything around the castle but sleep. Sam often caught Bran firmly telling her to get some rest, and the elder Stark sister telling him she couldn’t. Sam was about two nights away from offering medicinal help to Sansa. The stress of the war, as well as the missing Jon and Arya, seemed to be getting to even the infallible Lady Stark. 

Sam tried to distract himself with Gilly and Little Sam, who despite the weather, was growing every day. He was miserable trapped inside, but the air was too cold for his lungs, and the snow was so deep that he could not run in it even if he knew how. Instead, Sam tried to keep him entertained with stories, giving Gilly a break when he wasn’t with the Maester. 

The snows were getting worse and worse. As he pushed through the Godswood, Sam could see trees branches nearly touching the ground due to the snow piled on top of them. What once looked like a winter wonderland now looked like line of snow, impenetrable and inhospitable. Sam brushed by a branch, and could finally see Bran sitting in his chair, seeming untouched by the cold air around them. “Hello, Bran," Sam called, stepping into his sight. 

Bran opened his eyes and smiled tightly. “They’re almost here.” 

Sam blanched. “The walkers?” 

“No, no,” Bran said. “Jon, Arya, and the others. The search parties as well.” 

Sam let out a deep sigh. “Thank the Gods. I was really starting to worry.” 

“The snows were stopping them, but there were a number of wights attacking them as well,” Bran told him, sticking his tongue out slightly. “We will need to hurry if we want to still win this war.” 

“Do you want to have our meeting as soon as they arrive?” Sam asked him. He knew the outline of the plan. It involved ending magic, Bran warging into a dragon, and a dragonglass dagger. 

Bran shook his head. “Everyone will need a day to rest. But tomorrow, we need to plan this out. It will take at least a week to get everyone into position, if not more, due to the weather. But we need to hurry. If Winterfell falls, Westeros will not have a chance.” 

Sam swallowed harshly. The familiar nerves that accompanied his thoughts whenever he thought about the Others had returned. “I can go tell Sansa if you need me to,” he offered. It was hard to get Bran through the snow now, with the heights going nearly halfway up his chair. More often than not, several of the soldiers would simply carry him back and forth. 

“Please do, Sam,” Bran asked, smiling up at him. “I’ll stay out for a little longer, but please send someone for me before it gets dark. That’s when Jon and the others will arrive.” 

“I will, I promise,” Sam swore, returning Bran’s smile before turning to hike back to the castle. As he turned, he thought about the plan. The end of magic would mean the end of the Others, Bran had said. It would destroy all ice magic. What was there to say it would not destroy other types of magic? Bran’s greensight was magic, and Jon had been revived by magic. What would happen to them? 

Sam turned and rushed back to Bran. “Bran, are you sure it will only effect ice magic?” 

Bran looked up at him, looking sheepish. “No, I think it will impact all types of magic. Sansa and I just didn’t want to spread that, to keep it from Daenerys if something happens to her dragons.” 

“Nevermind her dragons,” Sam said dismissively. “What about Jon?”

Bran’s mouth opened slightly, shock in his eyes. “I didn’t even consider…”

“Is he going to die again?” Sam demanded, panic in his chest. “Is there anything we can do?”

“I...I.. I don’t know,” Bran said, helplessly. “I don’t know Sam. This might be what hurts us,” he said, almost to himself. “We can’t let Jon die.” 

“I know, Bran, I know,” Sam agreed, trying to soothe him. Sometimes he forgot how young Bran was. “We can wait until Jon gets back, and try to think of something else.”

“I don’t know if there is, Sam,” Bran said miserably. “We’ve waited too long to do anything else.”

“We think of something,” Sam repeated. He reached out and hugged Bran briefly, trying to offer some comfort to the younger boy. He doubted it would work. 

He pulled back and offered a smile to Bran. “I’ll go talk to Sansa. Try to calm down.” 

“Don’t tell her about Jon,” Bran said suddenly. “She doesn’t need more to worry about.” 

“Alright, I won’t mention it,” Sam promised, before turning and heading back to the castle. 

By the time he was back in the castle yards, he was sweating heavily under his cloak, and breathing hard. He hurried to the soldiers standing by the gate to tell them of Bran’s request. “Please send soldiers to bring Lord Bran inside when it grows dark,” he requested. The tallest soldier, a man from Wintertown named Rickard Snow, nodded in response. 

Sam turned to go inside and find Sansa. He remembered, just in time, of the slippery patch hidden underneath the several feet of snow. He walked around it, thankful that he did not embarrass himself this time. 

The castle was far warmer than the outdoors, but it was still chilly. Sam worried that the cold would never leave his bones. He hurried down the hallway, heading for Sansa’s solar, where she often was if she was not with the Maester. There was a guard posted, which meant she was in. Sam nodded at the man, and knocked. “Come in,” Sansa called. 

Sam pushed open the door and was surprised at what he saw. He had expected Sansa to be seated at her desk, piles of letters spread out as they often were. Instead, her desk was clear, and Sansa was pacing across the room, one single letter in her hands. “What’s wrong?” Sam asked, coming to stand in front of her.

“It’s a letter from Asha Greyjoy,” Sansa explained. “She, as well as Arianne Martell’s forces, have defeated Euron Greyjoy.” 

“That’s excellent!” Sam exclaimed. Finally, some good news in the deep of winter. Sansa’s face didn’t change. “What else?” Sam asked, nerves growing. 

“Euron had some sort of horn that raised a beast from the seas,” Sansa exclaimed. “It didn’t die when he did, and is now acting as some sort of guard in Blackwater Bay for King’s Landing.” 

“Less than ideal,” Sam admitted. “But if it was summoned by magic, would Bran’s solution for the Others hurt this beast as well?” 

Sansa paused and looked at him. “Did Bran tell you it would affect all types of magic?” 

“I guessed,” Sam admitted sheepishly. He remembered Bran's words, and didn't push the topic. 

Sansa sighed, but nodded. “It might,” Sansa agreed. “But that’s not what I’m worried about. Asha sent a spy into King’s Landing. She reported that most of the Gold Company is not there, either. There’s only a few hundred of them. Where are the rest? Did Cersei send them North to attack us?” Sansa bit her lip, panic crossing her eyes. 

“Winter must be back down there, as well,” Sam reasoned. “It would be suicide to send them more north.” 

“Asha added that winter is only just beginning that far south,” Sansa added, looking almost embarrassed to keep correcting him. 

Sam sighed. “We’ll have to let Jon know. He might be able to send more forces back to Winterfell.” 

“With our luck, they’ll arrive the same day as the Night King,” Sansa muttered, moving to sit down. She set the letter down as well. “I know you didn’t come up to hear me complain,” she said, looking up at Sam. “What is it?”

“Bran wanted you to know Jon and the others, as well as the search parties, will be back at dark,” Sam told her. As her face lit up, happiness slid through him at the realization he had helped end one of her troubles. 

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Sansa exhaled. “At least something is alright.” 

Sam smiled softly. “It would take more than snow to kill Jon.” 

Sansa blushed. “I know,” she said, diverting her eyes. “Still, I worry.” Since Jon had left, Sam had realized how much Sansa was attached to him. It reminded him of his own concern for Gilly. He wasn’t sure if this was a new development since they’d found out about Jon’s parents, but either way, Sam hoped the best for them both. Jon was his closest friend, his brother. And Sansa was a strong woman, incredibly intelligent, while also kind. Sam didn’t think there were enough kind people in the world. 

It made sense, he thought, why Bran wouldn’t him to tell Sansa about their realization. If she loved Jon the way Sam believed she did, it would only cause her more pain. There was no need to add more worry to her soul, at least until they attempted to come up with a new plan. 

“I have to go help the Maester,” Sam told her, catching her eyes again. “If you need anything, you’ll know where I’ll be.” 

“Thank you, Sam,” she told him, a smile crossing her face. “I’ll try to see you later.” 

The rest of Sam’s day passed with the sick, administering medicine and adjusting stitches. They’d done a fairly good job keeping their charges alive, but with only one real Maester, it was hard to keep track of all of the patients. Sam had taught several more words to Forzo, who in turn had been teaching him Dothraki words, at least when he was lucid. It was a nice thing to experience, in the midst of this war. 

They hadn’t gotten any more of the injured for over three weeks, with the winter weather making it even more difficult to transport the injured. Wolkan had expressed his concern that one of the two of them should be on the front lines, but that put the injured back at Winterfell at risk as well. There were no easy answers in the midst of war, Sam thought, darkly. 

After he’d made his rounds, he retreated back to the library to eat his lunch, while also going over the legends of the Others as well. He spared a few moments looking for a hint of a giant sea beast, but if it was written down anywhere, it was not in the books at Winterfell. It made sense, as a giant sea beast would not be a concern to those living this far inland. He would have had more luck at Storm’s End, or Pyke. He’d have to ask Theon when he returned. The man hadn’t lived in Pyke very long, but he might have more of an idea than anyone else. 

Eventually, Gilly and baby Sam found him, and Sam put down his books and played with the baby for a while. It was a good distraction from everything going on, he thought, dancing the stuffed wolf in front of the baby’s face. Gilly was reading aloud from one of the books, telling a story about a terrifying ice spider that luckily seemed to go right over Little Sam’s head. Sam let the warmth of the fire, and the softness of Gilly’s voice lure him into a nap, the baby drifting off on his chest. 

He woke suddenly, Gilly shaking him slightly. Sam blinked the last bit of sleep out of his eyes. “They’re back, Sam,” Gilly told him, the baby in her arms. “Lady Sansa stopped by, told me to wake you. They’re meeting in her solar.” 

Sam forced himself up. A quick glance out the window showed him that it was already night. He had slept much longer than he had intended. “Thank you, Gilly,” Sam pressed a quick kiss to her lips before turning to head out. He grabbed the stack of books he’d laid out earlier, just in case he had a moment to talk to Theon. “I’ll see you in a bit,” he called back. 

“Good luck, Sam,” Gilly replied, voice worried. 

Sam hurried down the hallways, already missing the warmth of the library. He could hear loud conversations even from this distance, and turned the corner to see people walking into Sansa’s solar, where he’d been just a few hours ago. The Lady Brienne was standing at the door, looking solemn. Sam walked to stand next to her, watching everyone else file in. 

“How are you, my Lady?” Sam asked, looking up to meet her gaze. Her face looked pale and drawn. 

“As well as can be expected, my Lord,” she replied stiffly. “Podrick is gone,” she added. 

Sam’s face fell. He’d heard the news weeks ago, on the list of the dead. Sansa had been inconsolable. It was one thing to hear about his death, but seeing the pain written on Brienne’s face was something else. Sam hadn’t spent much time with the boy, but he’d been young and skilled. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam told her gently. 

“Thank you,” Brienne replied, face softening for a moment. She opened her mouth for a moment, as if to say something else, but before she could, the line at the door thinned and both of them turned to walk inside. 

Jon was standing at the head of the table, looking exhausted. He was leaning against Sansa, and had one hand gripping the table. Arya was on his other side, looking pale and worried, holding Bran’s hand, who was seated next to the window. 

Sam smiled at all of them together, but realized he wouldn’t get to speak to them until after the meeting. He wondered why they were having it now, instead of tomorrow, as Bran had suggested. Maybe Jon didn’t want to wait, he thought. Sam followed Brienne to the back of the room, where they stood by a worn-out looking Lord Davos and a shivering Theon Greyjoy. 

The rest of the room was full of Daenerys Targaryen and her remaining advisors. Ser Jorah Mormont stood at her side, as did Lord Varys, Lady Missandei, and Grey Worm. Meera Reed was standing near Bran, with a man who must have been her father, as well as Gendry Waters, and Tormund Giantsbane. Between them and Brienne were Lord Tully and Lord Royce, who were arguing with each other. There was an empty space between them and Brienne, and Sam could only imagine the Lannister brothers standing there, taunting each other. But Tyrion was dead now, and Jaime disappeared to the South. The small room was crowded, and the grief of everyone inside only made the room seem smaller. 

Sam turned to Theon, eager to ask him about the sea monster. “When you were growing up on Pyke, did you ever hear a tale about a sea monster?” 

Theon looked surprised. “If I did, it was long ago.” 

“Anything about a sea monster summoned by horn?” Sam pressed. 

Theon paused. “Did my uncle do this?” 

Sam nodded, stepping closer to him amidst all the conversations. “Your sister defeated him. He’s dead now, but he left a beast behind.” 

Theon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, someone cleared their throat loudly. “Quiet, please,” Jon called. The room went silent quickly, conversations dying before they could begin. 

“Thank you, everyone, for meeting here today. I know we’re all tired, but time is of the essence. I’m unsure how much longer our forces can hold off the Walkers.” Jon paused for a moment. “We need a new plan.” 

“And I suppose you have one, my Lord?” Varys called from down the table, almost mildly. 

“Aye,” Jon said. “I do.” He looked around at everyone, before reaching back for Sansa’s hand. “I went South all those moons ago to bring back armies and dragons to fight the Others. All that did was give the Others a dragon, and get more men killed.” He looked at Bran for a moment. “Maybe it’s time to try a plan closer to home.” 

“I have had a second plan for some time,” Bran told the room. “It will be more difficult with the Night King on a dragon, but I still think it can be done.” 

“What do we have to do, my Lords?” Davos called. 

“I have what is called greensight,” Bran explained. “Since I was pushed from that window-” Sam could hear Brienne shifting beside him- “I have been able to use my mind to take control of animals. I have done it with direwolves and ravens. I believe I can do it with a dragon, as well.” 

“I’ve seen him do it,” Meera told the group. Her face looked hard. Sam looked over at her. She’d been with Bran for their entire journey, she would know the limits of his powers. 

Bran nodded, smiling briefly at Meera. “I can take control of the Night King’s dragon, and try to bring him down. But he will have to be somewhat close to the castle. I do not know how far my reach will be.”

“But we can’t bring him to the castle,” Lord Varys protested. “We don’t have enough forces here!”

“No, I don’t think that would work,” Bran agreed. “There is a grove of weirwoods, just west of the castle, in the Wolfswood. I believe that would be close enough.” 

“What’s so important about the weirwoods?” Gendry asked, leaning towards Bran. 

“If we can get the Night King off of the dragon, and against a weirwood tree,” Bran began, “we can kill him with a dagger made of dragonglass, and put an end not just to him, but to all the ice magic in the world.” 

“All of the ice magic?” Davos asked, eyebrow raised. “How would that work, boy?” 

“The Night King was made by the Children of the Forest,” Bran explained. He looked tired, but kept pushing through the explanation. This was the most talkative Sam had seen him since he had returned to Winterfell. “He was created by Earth magic, to help defeat the First Men. But it got out of hand, and the Children needed the help of the First Men to defeat the ice magic they created.” 

“But they didn’t,” Arya said, arms tight against her chest. “They just buried it as deep as they could.” 

“Exactly,” Bran agreed. “If we are to destroy the Others, we have to recreate the methods which bore them. It’s the only way to make sure they don’t come back.” 

“So, you take down the dragon, and someone has to be there, waiting to kill the Night King?” Jorah asked, trying to understand. 

“Exactly,” Bran told him. “Ideally, Daenerys will have her dragons lure the Night King towards the Wolfswood, where I can take control of Viserion, and bring him down. Then, someone on the ground, ideally Arya, Jon, or you, Jorah, can kill him.”

“Why the three of them?” Varys asked, tilting his head. 

“They all have First Men’s blood,” Bran said simply. “I’m unsure if it's needed, but I would rather be safe than sorry.” 

“Ideally, my Lord, I’d like to come as well,” Brienne called. “Just to keep watch on your siblings.” 

Bran nodded. “A good idea. Anyone else?” 

“Me,” Meera cut in. “I want to see this to the end, Bran.” 

Bran met her gaze and nodded. 

“If Meera’s going, I’ll stay here,” Theon said, speaking up. “I want to be able to protect you, Bran, the way I should have protected you all those years ago.” 

Bran’s face softened, and he nodded again. “Thank you, Theon.” 

“There is something else I must add,” Sansa said, cutting into the conversation. “This morning, a raven arrived from Asha Greyjoy. She has defeated her uncle, but he left behind a beast guarding King’s Landing. She sent a spy into the city, and discovered most of the Gold Company is not there anymore.” She paused, letting everyone process her words. “I fear they are on their way to Winterfell.”

“What can we do?” Arya said immediately. 

“We need more forces back here,” Sansa replied, looking worried. She was still holding Jon’s hand. 

“We can send ravens, but I’m not sure if anyone will be able to get here in time,” Jon admitted. He rubbed his chin. “All we can hope is that the snow holds them up as well.” 

Silence gripped the room. The severity of the situation was gripping them all. Between the Others in the North, and the Gold Company in the South, it could be the end of all of them. And if Bran was wrong, if anyone made a mistake, it could be the end of humanity across Westeros. 

It was no small concern. 

“So that’s all we have to do then?” Gendry asked weakly. The pressure seemed to release, and chuckles were heard across the room. Sam joined in, trying to release some of the tension in his chest. It had all come down to this, then. 

“No, that’s not all we can do,” a new voice cut through the conversation. Heads turned, including Sam’s, to Daenerys Targaryen, who had been quiet the entire night. “If I am to fly my dragons, I will need help.” 

“You want someone to fly Rhaegal?” Jorah asked, eyes widening. 

Daenerys took a deep breath. “Yes, I do. And I think there is only one person who can. The son of my brother, Rhaegar.” 

Sam took a deep breath, not even daring to look at Jon. What was Daenerys doing? Had she come up with her own plan? This wasn’t something they had planned for. 

“Your grace, your nephew Aegon died as an infant,” Jorah said gently, reaching to touch her shoulder. “I know the loss of Tyrion hurt you, but-”

“This is not about Tyrion!” Daenerys cut him off. “This is about defeating the dead, and we cannot do this without both of my dragons obeying riders. Rhaegal will not listen to me anymore.” She looked over at Jon. “He needs his rider.” 

“What does Jon have to do with that?” Tormund cut in, chuckling. “He’s no dragonrider.” 

“Yes, yes he is.” Daenerys insisted. “He told me, before we left Winterfell last time. He is Rhaegar’s son, Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark.” 

“It’s true,” Meera's father, Howland Reed, said softly from his corner. “I was south with Ned, and we brought the babe back.” 

“Is that the only proof?” Lord Varys asked sharply. Sam could see a hint of surprise in his eyes. 

“No,” Sam said softly. Eyes turned to him. “I have a marriage announcement that I found in Oldtown. As well as notes about the birth of an Aegon Targaryen, months later.” 

“Aegon?” Jorah repeated, eyes wider. “He named his second son Aegon as well?” 

“And he is the true heir to the Iron Throne?” Varys said softly.

“We’re not here to debate about my brother’s naming habits, or the throne, or any of it,” Daenerys said impatiently. “This is about here, and now. Will you fly Rhaegal, Jon?” 

Everyone turned to see Jon. Sam could see his left hand, once gripping the table, was now tightly in Sansa’s as well. He looked exhausted. “I am so happy the secret that haunted me my entire life can now be passed around by people who only want to use me,” Jon said sharply. Whispers stopped around the room, with Lord Tully and Lord Royce stopping mid-discussion. “Yes, I was born Aegon Targaryen. But I’m Jon Snow, here and now. And I will fly the dragon Daenerys, if you think it best.” 

Daenerys smiled smugly and nodded. Did she realize what she had done? Sam wondered. With Jon’s secret out, she could lose the throne she had wanted so badly. But Jon didn’t want it. What would happen now? Sam could see in the corner of his eye Lord Tully whispering again. Lord Varys looked conflicted as well. He almost didn’t want to know what plans were being hatched right now. 

“Then the plan is set,” Bran said solemnly, back near the fire. Eyes slid back to him. “Daenerys and Jon will fly the dragons, Arya, Meera, Brienne, and Jorah will follow on horseback. Or direwolf,” he added, before Arya could interrupt. “The majority of you will return to the forces up North, and try to hold back the coming horde. The rest will stay here with Lord Davos and my sister, who will lead the forces here at Winterfell, in case of an attack, from either the Gold Company or the Undead.” 

“Do you really think that will be enough, Bran?” Sansa asked her brother. 

“Winterfell has more protections than we know,” Bran replied, smiling slightly. 

“If you say so,” Arya muttered.

“That concludes the meeting,” Jon said. “I would prefer if the secret stays here, amongst us,” he added, looking from Lord Varys to Lord Tully to even Tormund. 

Nods and “Aye, my lord,” echoed around the room, as most began to leave. 

Daenerys and her advisors left quickly, but the others left more slowly. Sam walked beside Brienne, coming up just as Jon was speaking to Davos. “I am sorry that I did not share my secret earlier,” he told the older man. “It was a need to know at the time.”

“I understand,” Davos told him, smiling tightly. “Do you have a plan, my Lord? With those two dragons, I doubt Daenerys will simply let you take the throne.” 

“She only has one now,” Arya pointed out. She’d moved to stand next to Gendry. “And besides, Jon doesn’t want the throne.”

Before Jon or Davos could reply, Tormund crashed into him, hugging him tightly. “Ah, do I have to call you my little dragon now?” The larger man boomed. 

Jon winced from the contact, but smiled as Tormund let him go. “If you must,” he allowed. 

Meera was talking to Bran, and Sansa to Theon. Sam glanced around. The only people left were those the Starks trusted completely, he noted. Davos, Brienne, Theon, Gendry, Meera, Tormund. If he wanted to say something, now would be the best time. 

Sam went to shut the door, listening to Gendry and Tormund laughing. When the door latched, all eyes turned to him. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sam said quickly. “But Bran and I had a thought that might be important.” 

“What is it, Sam?” Jon asked. Sam walked to stand closer to the group, not want this to get out. 

“Bran told me how you think that all magic might be affected,” Sam rushed it out. “But Jon, you were saved by magic.” 

Silence struck the room. 

“Jon, he’s right!” Sansa exclaimed. There was more panic on her face that Sam had ever seen. “If we do this, you’ll die again.” She turned to Bran. “This is it, isn’t it?” She demanded. “This is what hurts us.” 

Bran’s face dropped. “It might be, Sansa. I’m not sure anymore. All I know is that this is the only thing we can do now. If we want to survive.”

Arya stepped forward, looking at her brother. “So there’s nothing we can do?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Bran replied, looking past her up at Jon. 

“I realized this a few weeks ago,” Jon admitted. He was leaning heavily on the table again. “Something Beric said to me. But there’s no other option now.” 

“Jon, no,” Sansa pleaded. “We can think of something else, we have to!” 

Jon reached for her and took her face into his hands. “I will not risk you, or Arya, or Bran, any more than I have to.” 

Sansa shook her head. “Why do you get to be the one who decides?” 

“Because I have to,” Jon insisted. 

Davos cleared his throat. Sam tore his eyes away from Sansa and Jon. “Lady Melisandre is still here, my Lord. She brought you back once before. She may be able to help.” 

“Even after magic’s gone?” Meera asked, speaking up. “If all magic is ending, I assume that would include hers.” 

“She may yet have another trick up her sleeve,” Davos retorted. “I would not bet against her, my Lady.” 

Jon pulled back from Sansa and nodded at Davos. “Bring her here. When we get back, she’ll be able to help.” 

“But what if it doesn’t work?” Arya demanded. “You can’t die Jon, not now.” 

Jon smiled bitterly at his little sister. “If there is one place I would want to die, it would be here. Surrounded by all the people who love me best.” 

“The North may be at risk, too,” Arya continued, not stopping. “If you die, what would Daenerys do to us?” 

“She knows I want a free North,” Jon said. “I hope she’d honor that. She wouldn’t have to worry about another Targaryen on her border.” 

“But I thought we agreed she’d never have to worry about that,” Sansa said sharply. 

Jon looked at her again, and reached for her hands. “I know, Sansa, I know. But I have to do this,” he pleaded with her. It was as if there was no one in the room but them. “I’ve made so many mistakes, especially when it comes to this war. Let me do something right.” 

The room went silent, until Sansa nodded reluctantly. “But you will come home, Jon Snow. You will come back to me,” Sansa insisted. She smiled wetly. “After all, if you aren’t here, how will you keep me safe?” 

Jon nodded again, and placed his hand on her face. “Aye, I will. I promise.” 

Everyone stood in silence, trying not to intrude, when Arya shouted. “Oh my Gods!” she exclaimed. To Sam’s surprise, she turned on Bran. “This! This is what you meant!” 

Bran nodded at her. “Remember what I said, Arya.” Arya looked back at Jon and Sansa, who looked sheepishly at her. 

“I just need-I need a minute,” Arya hissed, turning and leaving the room. Gendry hurried after her, calling her name. 

“She was always going to figure it out eventually,” Jon muttered. 

Sansa sighed in response. “Still not the ideal time.” 

Jon smiled at her, face softening. He then seemed to realize he still had a crowd of people watching him. Tormund, in particular, was chuckling. 

“You do love them kissed by fire, little crow,” Tormund roared, continuing to laugh. 

Jon went red at the cheeks and coughed. “What’s important,” he said loudly, trying to get back on track, “is that you all have been by our sides, fighting with us, protecting us, supporting us. We could not have done it without you.” He added, looking from Brienne to Lord Davos, to Meera and Tormund, and finally, Sam. “I wish you all good luck in the battles ahead.” 

“And you, my lord,” Davos said, walking forward to clasp him on the back. “You got this, lad. We’ll figure out the rest when the battles are over. First, I have a witch to find,” he added, before turning and leaving the room in a hurry. 

Brienne cleared her throat, and all attention fell to her. “I’m off to find Arya, and to plan our journey,” she said.

“I should come as well,” Meera said, reaching over to touch Bran’s hand. “I’ll be back,” she told him. Bran smiled up at her as she moved to stand next to Brienne. 

“Be safe up on that dragon,” Brienne told Jon, eyes softening. She looked more composed than earlier. “I may not be able to catch you.” 

Jon laughed. “I appreciate any effort, Brienne.” She smiled back at him, before bowing her head and following Davos out, Meera following. 

“I’ll go find the other Free Folk and let them know the plan,” Tormund said, finally getting over his laughter. “I’ll leave a few here, to protect the castle, Lady Sansa,” he added, looking at her. 

“It’s greatly appreciated, Tormund,” Sansa replied, looking calmer than before. 

Tormund gripped Jon on the shoulder briefly, before leaving as well. 

The room was much quieter as the tall wildling left the room. Sam realized the Starks might want to be alone, so he started to head out as well, before realizing he’d forgotten his books. He turned back to grab them, listening to Theon and Jon speaking. 

“I’ll keep Bran safe, Jon, I swear,” Theon told him, voice thick with emotion. “It’s the least I can do.” 

Sam turned back with his books just as Jon was saying “I believe in you, Theon,” before moving to hug him. “Be safe.” 

“You too,” Theon said, before leaving the room as well. 

Sam was heading to the door as Jon said, “I just need a few minutes, and then I’ll be over.” 

“Alright,” Sansa said, moving behind Bran. “I’ll try to find Arya, and let her know to meet us in Bran’s chambers.” 

Sam moved to follow them out, to give Jon a moment of peace. 

“Sam?” 

It seemed as if that was not what he needed. 

Sam turned back from the doorway and saw that Jon had slumped over the table, looking exhausted. 

“Jon!” he exclaimed, rushing towards his friend. “What is it? What do you need?” 

“I don’t need any help,” Jon pushed him back. “I just need you to promise me something.” 

“Anything,” Sam told him, biting his lip in worry. 

“Protect Sansa and Bran during the battle,” Jon begged. “And if I don’t come back, protect them, and Arya, then, too.” 

“I promise,” Sam swore. He hesitated, and then finally said what had been bothering him all day. “We can still make another plan Jon. We don’t have to go through this one.” 

Jon sighed, and a look of pain crossed his face. “I don’t know if another plan would work. Not for sure. Bran is convinced this one will” 

“He’s been wrong before,” Sam pointed out. “Why take the risk at all?” 

“Because I have to keep them safe!” Jon shouted. His face was reddening. “I couldn’t save Robb, Rickon slipped out of my fingers. Every day, the war gets worse, and more wights are getting close to Winterfell! And now the Gold Company are on their way. I can’t lose them, Sam. I would do anything for the three of them, and if I have to die, then so be it.” 

“Sansa and the others would want you to live, Jon,” Sam said softly. “You heard Sansa and Arya. You don’t have to die to be a true Stark, Jon. This isn’t the choice they want you to make.” 

“I’m making it for them,” Jon said, fiercely. “I thought I was making good choices to keep them safe when I went south. I thought Daenerys and her armies and her dragons would do that. But it’s only put them at more risk. This is my chance to make this right, Sam.” Jon reached out and grasped Sam’s hands, eyes boring into his. “Please, Sam. Trust me.” 

Sam wanted to believe him, he really did. He knew what Jon had gone through in Dragonstone. He wanted to make up for a mistake that was not his. He did not force Daenerys to keep him there, did not ask for the wight hunt, or the summit at the Dragon pit. It was unfair that Jon might die while the others continue to play their game of thrones. 

“This isn’t fair, Jon.” Sam said, emotionally. He could feel the tears gathering in his eyes. “You deserve better.” 

Jon smiled weakly and squeezed Sam’s hands again. “Don’t we all, Sam. Don’t we all.”


	11. Bran Stark II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night comes to a climax. The Old Kings of Winter reveal themselves. Bran loses his wings.

Over the last week, the weather had improved, almost drastically. The skies had cleared up, and no new snow had fallen for days. The air was still painfully cold, but Bran knew it was the calm before the storm. When the Night King arrived, it would feel like the depths of winter once again. 

He was sitting in Winterfell’s yards, watching Jon and the others prepare to leave. With the weather clearing, Lord Tully and the others had made it back to the war camp, and the hundred or so soldiers they’d sent back to Winterfell had already arrived. With the two fronts prepared as best as they could, Jon had decided that now was the time to move. 

Lord Davos, Gendry, and Sam were to lead the battle here at Winterfell, if necessary. Jon had made sure the soldiers here at Winterfell were prepared for both the wights coming from the north, and the possibility of the Gold Company from the south. Bran found himself more worried about the wights, and he knew Jon was the same. Sansa remained convinced that Cersei had expected them to be unprepared, and would try to surprise them. With that in mind, scouts had been riding south of the castle for the last few days, but there was no sign of the mercenary company, at least not yet. 

Jon was rushing around the yards, making sure everyone was ready for the battles to come. Bran watched him, fear rising in his chest. All of their planning was finally going to come to ahead tonight. What if he had miscalculated? What if he got his last remaining brother killed? Would this all be worth it? 

Bran kept his eyes on Jon as he ensured Brienne and Meera’s horses were prepared. Jorah Mormont was already mounted, looking back at the castle, searching for his missing queen. Arya was talking to Sansa, next to Nymeria and Ghost, who were standing close together. Ghost was to stay here with Sansa, while Arya was planning on riding Nymeria into battle. Even the two direwolves seemed aware of the severity of the situation, both nuzzling on each other like they’d never see one another again. Sansa hugged Arya suddenly, duplicating the wolves at their feet. 

Bran was so distracted by the wolves that he didn’t even hear Jon approach him. “Bran, we have to talk,” his brother said softly. Jon kneeled down, so their eyes were level. 

“What is it, Jon?” Bran asked, his voice portraying a calm he did not feel. 

Jon simply looked at him for a moment, his eyes serious. “Whatever happens to me out there, I don’t want you to blame yourself,” he said, firmly. “I don’t want you to feel guilty for saving the world.” 

Bran swallowed hard. “It was my idea, Jon. You’re my last brother,” he whispered. If Jon died, like Robb, stabbed in the chest, or Rickon, with arrows through his back, he didn’t know how he could survive the pain. He’d have the girls, he’d always have them, but those days of the four of them in the castle yards, Jon and Robb fighting at swords while he and Rickon cheered them on were long gone. 

Bran didn’t want to lose another piece of his already scattered childhood. 

Jon just watched him, before reaching out and hugging him tightly. Bran felt a tear slip down his face. He hadn’t felt this young, this helpless, in years. It was like he was stuck in his bed, watching Robb go off to war all over again. 

“You’ll be with me the entire time,” Jon whispered into his ear. “I believe in you, Bran.” 

Bran coughed wetly. He was relieved that someone did. 

Jon pulled back, eyes still soft. “Be safe, little brother.” He paused for a moment, before his lips titled up. “If we survive this, we can go out walking beyond the wall, if you’re not afraid.” 

Bran opened his mouth, confused on what Jon was referencing, but his brother had already turned away, still limping slightly. He was heading towards Sansa, so Bran let the moment drop. They needed to say goodbye, too. 

Arya came to him, instead. They watched Jon and Sansa hug for a moment, for Arya asked, “How long?” 

“Not until they knew about Jon’s parents,” Bran told her, reaching up to wipe his tears away. “But they felt it much longer than that. Jon back when they reunited at the wall, Sansa when they took Winterfell back.” 

Arya scoffed. “Part of me wants to be angry. Or at least annoyed.” She paused for a second. “But after Joffrey, and Littlefinger, and _Daenerys_ , part of me is just relieved.” 

Bran laughed, suddenly. It was true. Jon and Sansa both had much worse romantic prospects. “Odder things have happened,” he said, agreeing with Arya. 

“I don’t know which one of them to threaten, which is definitely the oddest thing,” Arya replied, watching the hug end. Jon started speaking softly to Sansa. 

“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Bran said, tearing his eyes from them to look at his sister. “Wolves mate for life.” 

Arya snorted. “Especially when there’s two of them.” Her face grew serious, and she met Bran’s gaze. “Any tips for the battle ahead?” 

“Move fast,” Bran told her. “You have the best chance against him if you act unexpectedly.” 

Arya nodded, before reaching out to hug him. “Be careful Bran,” she whispered. “Love you.” 

“Love you, too,” Bran whispered back, blinking hard to keep the tears from his eyes. Arya pulled back, smiled at him once more, and walked to stand by Nymeria. 

Bran’s eyes went back to Jon and Sansa, and he could hear Sansa’s voice raising slightly. “No, no I won’t even consider it-”

“You must,” Jon told her firmly. “I am coming back, but you, of all people, know you need to be prepared for anything.” Sansa’s face went white at that remark, and two matching tear tracks were visible down her cheeks. 

Before Bran could hear Sansa’s reply, Meera came up to stand by him. Bran felt more guilt. Another thing he’d handled badly. 

“I was watching you with your siblings,” Meera told him, looking serious. “When you sent me away, you lied about being the Three-Eyed Raven completely, didn’t you?” 

Bran sighed, trying not to meet her eyes. “Meera, I wanted you to go home. I had gotten Hodor killed, and Jojen, and I couldn’t bear the thought of-” 

“You didn’t get them killed,” Meera said harshly. “We chose to go with you. Jojen and I chose to come to Winterfell, and to run with you. We chose to go north of the Wall. Don’t you dare take that away from him just because you feel guilty, Brandon Stark.”

At the sound of his full name, Bran looked up and met her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to take that from him.” 

“I know you didn’t,” Meera said, sighing. She knelt down, so their faces were close. “I know you meant well. You always mean well. But Bran, you can’t lie to people to protect them. People have to make their own choices, their own mistakes.” Bran thought of Jon’s insistence that the plan go forward. People will be stubborn, Bran thought, even in the face of certain death. 

“I shouldn’t have sent you away,” Bran said softly. Meera reached out, and touched his chin. 

“I agree,” she said simply. “But you did.” 

“I did,” Bran repeated. “Where do we go from here?” 

“You’ll warg into this dragon, and I’ll chase after it,” Meera said. To her, it really was so simple. “And then, after, we can decide what to do next.” 

“We?” Bran repeated, again. 

“Yes,” Meera said, smiling. “We. Do you think you’re getting away from me so easily now, Bran?” 

Bran felt a blush dust his cheeks. She always made him feel like this. “I should hope not.” 

Meera leaned in, and kissed his cheek softly. “See you on the other side, Bran.” She stood, and went to mount her horse as well. Bran looked around, trying to will his blush away. His fair skin would only make it worse. 

Everyone was ready to go, mounted on their horses, except for Daenerys. She still wasn’t here, Bran realized. Just as he had the thought, he heard one of the doors to the Great Keep open behind him, and footsteps leading out. It was her. 

Bran watched her walk into view. He had expected her to go right to Jon, but instead, she stopped in front of Sansa, eyes hard. “I wanted to thank you again for your hospitality, Lady Sansa,” the little queen said, sounding hard instead of polite. “It is greatly appreciated.” 

“Of course, your Grace,” Sansa replied, smooth as ever. It was hard to tell she’d been crying. 

“I wanted to say one more thing,” Daenerys said, voice lowering. “I came North to fight this war, yes, but I also came for Jon. Obviously, the situation has changed a bit-” Bran could hear Arya coughing in the background- “but I still want to say I’m here for his family. For our family,” she said, hopefully. 

Sansa’s face relaxed for a moment. All the emotions she’d had for the last few weeks were present on her face. The stress from all those weeks not hearing from Jon and Arya, the fear of the war, and the ever consistent fierceness that Bran thought defined him sister. “If we all survive this, we will be family through experience, if not blood,” she relented. For a moment, Bran could hear an echo of his father in her words. “You won’t be alone, Daenerys.” 

The Dragon Queen’s face lit up, and she moved to hug Sansa quickly. Bran’s sister was too surprised to hug her back, but when Daenerys pulled back, Bran could see Sansa smiling at her softly. Bran doubted they’d ever be friends, but family was _different_. Like Uncle Edmure, plotting in the back of the council, or Aunt Lysa, almost pushing Sansa through the Moon Door, family was more complicated. 

And if anything had been proved over the last few months, family was one of the few things Daenerys wanted in the world, besides her Iron Throne.

Watching her walk towards Jon, Bran almost felt bad about her dragons. If all went to plan, she’d be more alone in the world than ever before. But Bran had hope for her, based on what had just happened. Jon and her were blood related, meaning they’d always be tied together somehow, and Bran and the Starks would follow Jon. They would never be close, but just having the possibility of a family had already changed her.

She was dressed in her white furs, but the red which had once shined through seemed diluted. Almost as if the Targaryen in her had been repressed. She was changing, Bran realized. War changed everyone, and in Daenerys’ case, it seemed for the better. She was still headstrong, almost reckless, but her anger seemed subdued.

Somehow, Bran realized, they’d done it. He, Jon, Sansa, and Arya had walked in front of the dragon, and not only survived the flames, but thrived together. And Sansa had shown a letter to Varys a few days back, confirming Littlefinger’s death. All of their politics had paid off. All they had to do now was to stop the Night King. 

That’s all, he thought, mocking himself. He forced himself to focus on the scene in front of him. “Try not to light the fire unless wights are within your sights,” Jon was ordering Davos. “And if you do, get as many people into the crypts as possible. It’s the safest place in the castle.” 

“Wouldn’t that put them at risk from the dead in the crypts?” Meera called. 

Jon raised his eyebrows. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He turned back to look at Bran. “What do you think?” 

“I think Winterfell has a few tricks left,” Bran said, staying purposely vague. He wasn’t sure if this would work, but he’d had a feeling ever since he’d gotten back to the castle, that the Old Kings of Winter would protect their own. He just didn’t know how to call upon them. He hoped in the moment, he’d realize what he had to do. “I say go into the crypts, if necessary.” 

Jon nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Lord Davos, you have command of the castle,” he said, turning to the former smuggler. “Lady Stark will be by your side until the castle is attacked.” 

“Aye, my lord,” Davos said. “Good luck out there.”

“You as well,” Jon replied. He turned to look at the riders. “Get to the edge of the Wolfswood. We should be there within the next two hours.”

“We’ll be ready,” Arya said, reaching for the dagger Bran had gifted her all those months ago. 

“Alright,” Jon said, turning to face the castle doors. “Let’s head out.” Arya and the others rode out ahead, Jon and Daenerys following on footstep. The dragons were waiting, just beyond the castle walls. Before they disappeared through the gates, however, Jon looked back once more. Bran met his eyes, and then watched him look at Sansa intensely. Bran glanced up at his sister, seeing the fear in her eyes. 

“Sansa,” Bran called softly. She walked to his side, but didn’t take her eyes off Jon until he had disappeared amongst the snow. “Make sure you have your dagger,” he told her. 

Sansa turned to look at him. “I have it,” she said, reaching into her skirts to show him. “Where should I be?” 

“The ramparts, with Davos,” Bran told her. “But stay safe. Move if you have too.” 

“And Ghost?” Sansa asked, reaching for the direwolf which had followed her over. 

“He should stay with you,” Bran said. Part of him wanted Ghost with him, but he knew it made sense for him to be with Sansa. That would allow Bran to warg into Ghost to see her, if need be. 

Sansa nodded. “Good luck, Bran,” Sansa told him. She reached out to hug him as well. Bran clung to her for a moment, feeling safe in her arms. 

She pulled back, and turned to follow Davos up the stairs. Far off in the distance, Bran could hear the dragons calling to each other, and Bran turned his head up to see them both take to the sky, his brother and Daenerys small blips on their gigantic backs. Bran watched them fly off, until Theon took Sansa’s place at his side, bow in hand. “Are you ready, Bran?” 

Bran nodded, forcing his eyes from the dragons. “Yes, let’s go to the Godswood.” 

Theon couldn’t carry him alone, so the pair of guards that often helped him through the thick snows came as well. Rickard Snow and Jallen Moss each gripped one side of his chair, and carried him to his normal place at the foot of the Weirwood. “Thank you,” Bran told them both. He got two quick nods in response, with both men out of breath. They hurried back to the castle, to take their place at the gates to the Godswood. 

Theon turned to look at him, rubbing his hands together to stay warm. “Do you need anything else from me, Bran?” 

Bran paused, unsure of how to say this. He reached into his chair, for the dagger Arya had given him all those weeks ago. “I want you to have this, just in case,” he told Theon, holding it out to him. 

Theon’s eyes widened as he took in the dagger. “Bran, you should-” 

“If you’re dead, I’m dead too,” Bran said firmly. “You take it.” He paused for a moment. “I want it back when the battle’s over, though,” he said, almost playfully. Theon looked up from the dagger, and smiled in response to the mirth on Bran’s face. 

Maybe there was a chance for them in the future, Bran thought, handing the dagger to Theon. Maybe the end of the war could be a fresh start for them all. Theon would be one of the only brothers he’d have left, one he’d actually get to grow old with. For a moment, Bran thought of getting old, for the first time in his life. He thought of his body aging, his hair growing grey. He thought of those children he’d seen, running through the godswood, one day running this castle. He thought of Meera’s lips against his cheek. He thought of feeling human again, of laughing, smiling, all without feeling this terrible weight in his chest, in his head, in his _heart_. 

Theon cleared his throat. “Anything else, Bran?” 

Bran shook his head, trying to focus. “No, I should start looking for the dragons.” He reached out to touch the tree, and felt himself disappear into the weirwood. For a moment, he was not a boy, but a tree. He was deep underneath the ground, and far in the air, snow covering his arms. Bran spent a moment in the tree, feeling his roots deep underneath the castle, before reaching out to warg into a crow, sitting on one of its highest branches. 

Warging felt different no matter which animal he was in, but the one thing that was consistent was Bran fighting with the animal for control. It was easier with animals that Bran had a bond with, like Summer or one of his siblings, or other animals that Bran could find a way to empathize with his plans. Birds were easier than most, but there was always a moment when he thought the bird was going to reject him. Luckily, this crow seemed to understand the importance of this night, and let Bran control him easily. 

Bran took to the sky, which was darkening quickly. There were a few clouds hovering in the distance, but the air was still clear. Bran flew over the castle, looking down to see people rushing through the yards, hurrying to their positions. He could see Gendry handing out dragonglass weapons, and Sam at his side, looking nervous even from high in the air. As Bran crossed the ramparts, he could see the deep red of Sansa’s hair as she paced the walls with Ser Davos, Ghost by her side. She was looking over the walls at the newly finished fire pits around the castle. 

They’d been started back before Jon and the others had headed north originally, but they’d only been completed after Jon expressed his worries for the castle’s safety. More and more wights were sneaking by the camps, and Jon worried a large number could make it to the castle. Uncle Edmure had sent a letter, claiming that less and less wights were seen each day, which had Jon worried they had found another way south, and were heading for the castle. 

Bran hoped they’d finish this war tonight, before they got the chance. 

He kept flying past the castle, looking beyond to see the shadowy figures of his sister, Meera, and the others traveling to their position in the Wolfswood. He could pick Arya out from the crowd, her body lower to the ground on Nymeria’s back than the others on the horses. He longed for a moment to slip into Nymeria’s skin, the same pull he felt when he saw Ghost. Neither of them were Summer, but warging into a direwolf always felt the most natural, the most like home. 

Bran ignored the pull and looked to the sky, trying to see Jon and Daenerys in the distance. They had flown in the direction of the clouds, and with these crow eyes, Bran could see their outlines, dozens of miles away. He almost wanted to warg into one of the friendly dragons, just to test his abilities, but they were already too far away. He should have thought about that earlier, he thought regrettingly. 

He turned his flight back towards the castle. There seemed to be some hassle on the ramparts already, Bran realized. Was it a wight? He flew as quickly as he could, flapping his wings as he hurried home. But before he could get close, he saw something out of the corner of his eye, coming from the south. He tilted the direction of his flight, trying to figure out what it was he’d seen. 

He felt his mouth-or beak, he supposed- open in surprise. There was an entire army, walking north. 

It was the Gold Company. 

Bran hadn’t been paying that much attention to Sansa’s concerns. He’d been worried, yes, trying to look at the whole picture. But he hadn’t really thought that they’d get here tonight. Sansa’s worries had been justified, Bran realized. And it was already too late to push back their attack on the Night King, and try something else. 

There were only a few hundred soldiers in Winterfell, but they’d have to hold the castle, Bran thought, flying over the marching Gold Company. There had to be over a thousand men marching below him. The fire pits would be useful, but they’d only do so much damage against live men who were not mindless enough to walk into the flames. 

As he reached the back of the marching men, Bran realized the men at the back were fighting someone else. But who could it be? Bran flattened his wings and directed himself towards the ground, trying to see what was going on. Dozens of men were fighting against this unknown force, and falling quickly. What could be overwhelming one of the most impressive sellsword companies in the world? 

Bran’s eyes clarified what his mind had realized too late. It was the wights. Somehow, they’d made their way all the way around Long Lake and Winterfell, and were coming north instead of south. They were coming for Winterfell, and now the Gold Company was the only thing between them and the castle. 

Bran could see the wights, running desperately towards the living bodies. He was so distracted by the wights rushing ahead that he hadn't seen the arrow until it was too late. 

Bran jolted back into his body, taking a desperate breath of air. He forgot where he was for a second, until Theon’s face came into focus in front of him, looking concerned. “Bran, Bran, are you alright?” Theon asked, worry on his face. “What happened?” 

“The Gold Company is here,” he gasped out. Theon’s eyes widened. “But they’re not attacking, not yet. They’re trying to outrun the wights, which seemed to have circled the castle and are heading north.” He took a deep breath. “For us.” 

“Wights and the Gold Company?” Theon asked tightly. Bran nodded. “Should I go warn Sansa?” 

“No,” Bran decided. “She’ll see soon enough.” 

“What happened to you?” Theon asked again, standing up again to look around nervously. 

“I was flying too close to the wights,” Bran admitted. “I think one of them shot me out of the air.” 

“You were in a bird?” Theon asked, walking to peer into the trees. 

“A crow,” Bran clarified. “He’s dead now,” he added softly, feeling remorse for the bird who’d helped him. He tried to shake the pain away. “I’m going to go check on Sansa and the others,” he told Theon, before falling back into the tree. 

First he reached for Ghost, still standing by Sansa’s side. The ramparts were chaos, with soldiers rushing back and forth as Lord Davos shouted orders. Someone had lit the fire wall already, Bran noted. He wasn’t tall enough to see how close the Gold Company was, but they were getting louder. 

He glanced up at Sansa. She looked worried, and was holding her dagger tightly, her gloves stretched thick over the dragonglass. 

“My lady, I really must insist you go to the Great Hall with the others,” Lord Davos came up beside them both. “There seem to be both Gold Company and wights heading our way, and I want you to be safe.”

“I appreciate your concern, Lord Davos, but I will not leave until they arrive,” Sansa told him, sounding more composed than Bran would have expected. “I need to see the battle.”

Davos sighed. “Aye, my lady. Please hurry when you do.” He offered her a bow, and hurried back to direct a few Knights of the Vale. 

Bran moved to nuzzle again Sansa’s side. She wound the fingers from her empty hand through his fur. “Thank you, Ghost,” she said softly. Bran knew Ghost would stay with her, keep her safe. He pulled back from Ghost’s consciousness, and found himself back in the tree. 

Theon was continuing to pace the Godswood, on alert for any wights which could have snuck their way in. Bran saw his own body, eyes white, and hands lying useless on his lap. There was so much at risk, he thought, panicked. He thought for a moment, hoping that a way to protect Winterfell would come to him. He could fall into the tree, he thought. But there was no time to waste, and before he did, he at least needed to know what was going on in the rest of the battle.

He reached out again, further than the Godswood, and found one of the Maester’s ravens, nestled inside the Maester’s tower. The raven let him inside just as easily as the crow had, less than an hour before. Bran spread his wings, and looked around the empty room. He left the other ravens sleeping in the warmth of the room, and flew out the opened window. 

The clouds had begun to approach Winterfell, and with them, a light snowfall had begun. Bran flew quickly, trying to stay as dry as possible. Did this snowfall mean the Night King was close? Bran glanced around, trying to see one of the dragons in the distance. All he could see was snow. 

He turned his attention to the oncoming Gold Company, which seemed to be about half as large as it had before. Instead, there were even more amounts of wights rushing at the castle. Bran worried that they’d be overwhelmed before Jon and Daenerys would even make it back.

He tilted his wings away from the oncoming soldiers and flew towards the wolfswood. He left the raven flying and reached pulled his consciousness back, and then sent it through the weirwoods to the grove closest to the edge of the Wolfswood. There, he found Nymeria, waiting with the others. 

Bran warged into his sister’s direwolf, who easily let him in. Bran found himself standing just inside the treeline of the Wolfswood, a heavy weight on his back. Arya, Bran realized. He glanced around, seeing Meera and Brienne on their feet, while Ser Jorah road up and down the treeline, looking anxious. 

Bran felt relieved that at least one part of the battle had been going smoothly, until Ser Jorah shouted. “Wights! There’s coming from the south!” 

“What!” Arya exclaimed, right next to Bran’s ear. “How did they get around the castle?” 

“That’s a concern for after the battle,” Brienne shouted, mounting her horse again. “Everyone, hurry!” 

With one last glance at Meere, Bran pulled back from Nymeria, and reached again for his raven, still hovering in the sky halfway between Winterfell and the Wolfswood. He looked for the the wights rushing at the group. There had to be at least two dozen who had broken off from the main group. But all four of them were capable, Bran thought. They would be alright. 

They _had_ to be. 

He turned back towards the castle, trying to decide where he was to go next. Was there enough time for him to go back into the past? There was so much going on that he found it hard to focus. He could see arrows flying at the Gold Company from Winterfell, while they were continually getting overwhelmed by the wights behind them. Bran started flying back towards the castle, trying to see how the battle was going, when he felt a shadow cross him. He tilted his head up and saw one of the dragons, rushing back to the castle. 

Bran flew up in the sky, hoping to get a glance of Jon. Instead, he could see Daenerys’ hair shining through the darkness. She flew her dragon towards the castle, and unleashed a stream of flame on the Gold Company. Bran watched hundreds of men go up in flames. There was still wights rushing forward, though, Bran thought, watching Daenerys pass the castle and turn to make a second run. 

Were the Night King and his dragon close enough for him yet? Bran wondered. He reached out, first brushing his mind by Drogon, just so he could recognize the feeling of a dragon. Bran reached out, but there was nothing close yet. He fell back into the raven’s mind, and shot across the sky. With no sign of the dragon, Bran realized now was the time to search the past for a way to protect Winterfell. He let the raven go and found himself back in the tree. He would have to do this quickly, he thought, reaching through the weirwood and into the past. 

When Bran opened his eyes, he was standing in Winterfell’s Godswood, with the familiar outline of his home in the background. There was deep snow on the ground, and Bran could see a small group huddled around the tree. Two men, each with the Stark look, and a tall woman with long dark hair braided down her back, were standing with one of the Children of the Forest. 

The tallest man, who had dark curly hair and a thick fur on his back, was speaking loudly. Bran hurried over to listen. 

“You claimed this would end them!” the man insisted, looking at the Child. “You promised that we’d never need to worry again!” 

“We thought it would be enough,” the Child said softly, but firmly. “The Others will need centuries to return, which should be more than enough to create a plan.” 

“Centuries might work for your people, but we have no way to know who will be ruling Winterfell then, let alone if they will remember how to fight the Others,” the second man protested. 

“Brandon’s right,” the woman said, looking at him fondly. “How can we plan for something like this?”

The Child hesitated for a moment, before saying, “We can make sure you will still be here.” At this Bran realized he’d seen this scene before, back before Jon had come home. He knew the Children had bond the Starks to Winterfell. How could this be helpful now? He thought trying to wonder why he’d come here, of all times. Had he missed something the first time? 

“With your magic?” The taller man asked, eyes narrowed. 

“Aye,” The Child replied, glancing up at him. “We can bind your family to the castle forever. As the Kings and Queens of Winter, you will be here until the time comes to fight the Others again. I can bind you all, and all the magic would need would be someone who asks for assistance.” 

“Asks?” the woman asked, stepping closer.

The Child nodded. “Aye, sometimes, all you need to ask.” 

Bran pulled himself out of the memory. He was still confused. What did it mean? He reached out for the raven again, trying to understand the scene he’d just seen. How could he ask for assistance? What would he even get? 

Bran heard a terrible scream behind him, and turned his head to see the other two dragons flying through the air, claws attached to each other. They were spinning fast, but with them came even thicker clouds, and snows pouring down. Bran tried to blink quickly in order to see what was going on. 

It only then occurred to him to try to warg into the dragon, as it was now within his grasp. He released the raven and took a deep breath and reached for the undead Viserion. The dragon’s mind was unlike anything Bran had ever attempted to warg into before. His mind was less complex than Hodor’s but stronger, more sure of itself, even in its undead state. The dragon forced Bran out easily, and he found himself back in the raven. 

Bran took another deep breath, and tried to place where he was. There was no good in fixating on his failure. He was still high in the air, somewhere between the castle and the Wolfswood. He could see Daenerys doing a second run of the castle, and worryingly, some of Drogon’s flames seemed to have missed the battlefield and had landed in the castle’s yard. The stables and the forge were both going up in flames. 

He forced himself to look away from the castle, looking for Jon again. His brother’s dragon had broken loose of Viserion and the Night King, but Rhaegal was now flying closer to the ground, looking tired. Viserion, on the other hand, was heading for Daenerys, and unleashed icy flames on the fire wall, destroying all of the hard work the soldiers had spent weeks on, as well as the actual wall of the castle, leaving a portion of Winterfell crumbling.

Bran tried to fly towards the castle, to see if there were any remaining wights rushing the walls. But the winds were too high and the ice too cold for his little wings to do anything but keep himself in the air. Even without being sure that the wights were rushing the castle, Bran could imagine them rushing through the destroyed castle, rushing towards all the people safe within its walls. 

There was no other choice, Bran realized. This was his moment. If he didn’t act now, didn’t find his way into the dragon, there was no chance for any of them. He centered himself, trying to remember all of his lessons at the knee of the first Three-Eyed Raven. _It was now or never_. 

Bran sent his mind out again, reaching for Viserion. He didn’t let the dragon’s harsh refusal stop him. He pushed against the dragon, using all of the power he had. The dragon’s undead mind felt almost empty, as if there was little left inside him for Bran to control. But as he reached out, trying to find something to hold on to, it was as if his mind was forced out, not back to his own body, but to all of the animals he’d warged into across the course of this night. But Bran didn’t think it was Viserion would had forced him out, but the undead magic from the Night King which seemed to control the dragon completely. 

For a moment, Bran was rushing through the yards at Winterfell, looking up at Sansa from Ghost’s eyes. They were running from the wights, trying to get back to the Great Hall. They ran neck and neck, quicker than Bran had ever seen his sister run before. But suddenly, she was gone- slipping from the corner of his eye. Bran forced Ghost to stop, turning to see Sansa on the ground, slipped up by the icy patch in the yards that never seemed to go away. Sansa was breathing hard, and she pulled out her dagger, as the wights were upon her, just feet away-

And then he was in Nymeria, running through the Wolfswood, as Arya dragged her own dagger along the oncoming wall of wights which were continually appearing from nowhere. She was shouting, and Bran shouted too, fearing for Sansa, for Ghost, for Jon high up in the sky-

And then he was in the air again. For a moment he thought he had done it, fallen into Viserion’s mind, but he was not a dragon, but the raven from Maester’s tower. He was in a dark sky, snows falling fast, when he felt something sweep around him. It was one of the dragons, he realized, trying to tilt his head to see which one. He tried to control his wings in the wind, and he caught just a hint of the dragon’s green tail, which meant Jon. Bran could see his brother clinging to the dragon’s back, clutching his hand to the left side of his face. Bran wanted to shout, to ask Jon what had happened, but as he heard the shriek come from his beak-

He was suddenly back in the Weirwood, back at Winterfell. He didn’t have much time, he realized, with all of his family in mortal danger. Bran reached deep into the roots of the Weirwood, deep underneath Winterfell. He reached, not for memories of the past, as he had before, but for _help_. 

He reached past his body, past Theon’s fearful pacing, past Sansa in the castle yards, and even deeper than the crypts, where smallfolk and nobles alike were hiding from the undead. Bran reached into the heart of the castle, and he did the only thing he could think of. He asked for help. _Help, help, help us._ He begged. He didn’t know if he was begging the castle, or some deeper force. _Please. This is the end. Help us._

And as he felt it rise, deep within the heart of Winterfell, he knew that this was the right thing to do to win. It was as if it was obvious. _All he had to do was ask._

Satisfied with his choice, and knowing Winterfell would be safe behind him, Bran reached one last time for the dragon, for Viserion’s undead mind still far above the castle. Bran didn’t try to fight him, but instead simply waited. Trees were good at that, he’d been told. The dragon’s mind was empty, but easily distracted. The Night King was forcing him to fly harder, to chase after his brothers. Bran felt the pain there, the longing for his winged brothers, and grabbed on. He melded it with his own pain, years old, of Jon leaving him behind to go to the Wall, of Robb leaving to save Father, leaving him crippled and in charge of an entire castle when all he wanted was his mother. Viserion thought of his own brothers, flying together over Essos, over the Narrow Sea, over the Wall to his own death. Bran thought of Rickon’s face, begging to go north of the Wall, tears streaking his face as Bran saw him for the last time. 

In the midst of all their shared angst, the dragon let him in. And Bran took control. 

The sheer power of warging into the dragon made him feel as if he were everywhere again. He was watching a ghostly figure fight wights, Sansa staring up in shock, snow kissing her cheeks. He was watching Arya ride Nymeria far below, urging her forward. He was across the sky hovering over Jon, who was clinging to the dragon as he was flying through the storm, holding on for his life.

Bran filled his heart with warmth for his siblings, and forced the dragon down. He could feel the Night King screaming, trying to force the dragon back into the air with both his fists and the strange ice magic he held the dragon under. But Bran would not be deterred. He rocked his body back and forth as he came up to the edge of the Wolfswood, weirwoods in sight, and threw the Night King from his back. 

Bran hovered still hundreds of feet in the air, watching as The Great Other landed in a snowbank, and tried to stand up, but stumbled due to the fall. Bran waited, watching him, aware of Arya coming up from the trees. Jon and Daenerys were still too high in the sky, and Bran roared, trying to get their attention. The winds and snows which the Night King had brought were still roaring greater than any storm Bran had ever seen. Would Jon and Daenerys get close to the ground in time? Bran decided to land himself, hoping it would get their attention. 

He cast his mind out to Sansa as he landed a few dozen feet from the Night King. Sansa was safe now, staring at the ghostly face of their older brother, one of hundreds of the Kings of Winter who had answered Bran’s call for help, who had returned from their crypts to defend Winterfell in the Stark name. From Ghost’s eyes Bran could see his father, wielding a ghostly version of Ice, his Uncle Benjen, looking more alive than he had the last time Bran had seen him, and a young girl who looked like Arya. Sansa stood as well, and was standing back to back with Robb, and they fought off wights together, defending their home from all those who threatened it. 

Bran forced himself back into the moment, and he saw Arya appear, rushing from the trees. Somewhere behind him, one of the dragons was slowly lowering towards the ground. Bran prayed for it to be Jon. Arya, meanwhile, leaped from Nymeria’s back, wielding her own Valyarian dagger. The Night King had managed to stand, and once he noticed Arya, he began running as quickly as he could. But Nymeria was quicker. She darted forward, past Arya and grasped the Night King’s leg. The Great Other struggled underneath her teeth, but was unable to pull himself free. 

Arya stopped running, but instead mounted her direwolf again, and urged her forward. Bran watched from the dragon’s eyes as the two of them dragged the Night King back into the Wolfswood, where the weirwood grove was only a few feet inside. Arya instructed Nymeria to prop the Night King against the tree, and she slid off her back, dagger raised. 

Bran’s heart beat fast, and he forced himself to be calm. It was almost done, he convinced himself. He turned his giant dragon head around, trying to see Jon. He roared again, trying to get his attention. He was still too high in the sky, Bran realized. He reached out for the raven and tried to urge Jon downwards by flying into him repeatingly. But Jon merely shrugged him off, still clutching his eye. What was wrong? Bran worried he’d miscalculated. Why wouldn’t Jon fly down? 

But it was too late. Bran roared one last time, begging for Jon to hear his pleas. Arya was holding the dagger, the dagger they’d used to kill Littlefinger, the dagger that had almost killed him all those years ago. With one smooth motion, she stabbed him in the chest. 

Bran felt his awareness slip, and he was forced out of Viserion’s mind, just as he’d been forced from the crow’s all those hours ago. But this felt like an ending. There was nothing left to reach for. 

Bran opened his eyes again, loss heavy in his chest, when he was greeted by Theon and two faces he had never thought he’d see again. “Mother?” he whispered. “Rickon?” 

“You did so well, sweetheart,” his mother’s ghostly face said gently. “Now you can rest.” 

“You did great, Bran,” Rickon said eagerly. His voice was so much deeper than Bran had expected. “You saved everyone.” 

Bran reached for them both, but felt nothing but air. “But magic is gone,” he said, confused. “How are you still here?” 

“We’ll fade too, according to your Uncle Benjen,” his mother said softly. “But we just wanted you to know much we love you, Bran.” 

Bran felt himself tear up, and he realized the Raven was truly, truly, gone. He was just himself again. 

“And how wonderful is that?” His mother replied to the words that Bran hadn’t even realized he’d said. Bran smiled tightly, trying to reach for her again, but she was fading away, as if she’d never even been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just getting this one out feels like an ending, even though we still have a few more chapters to go! I may have taken some liberties with Bran's powers, but I hope everyone enjoys! xx


	12. Arya Stark II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The death of magic has unintended consequences. Melisandre has one last trick. The pack clings to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go folks! Sorry I'm taking so long, each chapter seems to have a mind of its own, and I find myself writing more and more! I hope everyone enjoys!

Arya, in shock, dropped the dagger as soon as the Night King shattered. With a gust of wind, she could feel the weather change. It did not get warmer, necessarily, but the bitterness, the cruelty of the cold seemed to fade away. It was still Winter, but not a supernatural, evil Winter. Not anymore. 

Arya was leaning down, picking up her dagger from the ground when she heard a pair of screeches come from far above. She looked up and saw Drogon, just feet in the air, start to fade away, just as the Night King had just moments before. Daenerys looked like nothing more than a small dot in the distance until she began plummeting towards the ground. She fell what looked like several feet, but Arya panicked and looked towards the sky where Jon was still hovering. 

“Get down!” she shouted, but between the distance and the wind, she doubted Jon heard anything at all. She had moved too quickly, Arya realized. Jon probably hadn’t even registered that the Night King was dead yet. Rhaegal, like his brother, began fading as well. Jon must have realized it, too, and he tried to redirect the dragon towards the ground. 

But it was too late. The green dragon faded away as well, still nearly fifty feet in the air. “Jon!” she screamed. She watched her brother fall through the air, moving so slowly she thought her heart would stop. He hit the ground hard, despite the snow, and Arya sprinted towards him as quickly as she could.

Halfway there, Nymeria came up behind her, and Arya pulled herself onto her back and hurried her forward. “Come on, Nymeria, hurry!” Arya shouted. Nymeria moved as quickly as she could, hurrying up hills and padding through snow until they reached Jon’s side. 

Arya slid off Nymeria’s back, and rushed towards Jon, her head pounding in fear. “Jon?” she called, reaching out for him. He was lying on his back, seeming motionless. Arya rolled him over, and fear froze her heart. His face was a bloody mess, with what looked like a scratch across his left eye. There was blood seeping through his chest, from a number of different points, and from his leg, which had already been mangled from fighting the Others weeks before. 

Arya pressed her ear to his chest, and was relieved to hear his heart still breathing. “Jon,” she whispered, almost praying. She looked around, hoping Brienne and the others had caught up. But all she could see was snow. 

She looked back at Nymeria, standing tall. Could she get him on her back? She wasn’t sure if she could keep him steady on the back of a direwolf. She bit her lip, looking down at Jon’s unconscious face. This couldn’t be the end. Arya reached down and stroked Jon’s cold cheek. She couldn’t lose her brother. They had finally defeated the undead. Victory would feel hollow without him. 

Arya could feel a pair of frozen tears threaten to escape from her eyes. As she reached up to wipe them away, she heard a voice in the distance. She looked up, and saw Brienne, riding hard, right for her. Arya stood up and waved her down. 

Brienne came to a stop in front of her. “Did it work?” Brienne asked, shouting to be heard over the wind.  
“Yes!” Arya shouted back. “But Jon’s hurt! Can you get him back to Winterfell?” 

Brienne nodded, jumping down from her horse. “Of course, my lady.” Together, they picked Jon up and settled him against the horse’s neck. Arya held him steady as Brienne climbed up behind him. “I’ll follow, too,” Arya called. Brienne nodded, and hurried off. Arya simply stood there, still scared. The cold was starting to seep into her bones. It had been the coldest night of her life. Arya felt frozen, one step above death. But she was still alive. She hoped next time she saw Jon, he’d still be alive, too. 

She jolted herself out of it, and turned back towards the Wolfswood. Arya could just barely pick Daenerys out, her coat blending in the snow. She climbed back on Nymeria, and headed towards the dragon queen.

Arya could hear Daenerys, even though the wind. She was slumped over the ground, sobbing openly. Her dragons were gone. Arya knew she should feel bad, for they were the last of the dragons. But with her own brother bleeding out, it was hard to feel sympathy for the giant beasts that Daenerys called her children. She climbed off of Nymeria and knelt down next to the queen. 

“Daenerys,” Arya said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. The queen jumped in surprise, and turned to look at Arya. Her face was blotchy and red, and her sleeves were ripped, revealing patches of her skin which looked red and irritated from the cold. “We have to go back to Winterfell!” Arya shouted over the wind. 

Daenerys shook her head. “No, no, I can’t!” she cried. “I can’t leave them. There’s nothing left of my babies,” she blubbered, tears racing down her cheeks. Arya thought back to her panic when Robb and her mother had died. There was nothing logical in grief. 

“I know, I know,” Arya tried to soothe her. “But we can come back, I promise.” 

Daenerys continued to shake her head. Arya tried to think of another solution. “Nymeria will remember where we were. We can come back, I swear it,” she insisted. Daenerys’ sobs slowed, and she looked up at Arya.

“Alright,” she agreed. Arya helped her stand, steadying her in the midst of the snow. She began to lead Daenerys to Nymeria, when Daenerys stopped and reached for her belt. She pulled out a dragonglass dagger, which she promptly thrust into the ground. “So we can come back,” she repeated Arya’s words, looking determined. 

Arya nodded back at her, before hurrying the queen onto Nymeria’s back. She climbed up as well, settling behind Daenerys as best she could. “Go home, Nymeria!” Arya shouted. Her direwolf immediately took off, rushing through the snow, back towards the castle. 

Arya saw very little on the journey to Winterfell except for the back of Daenerys’ head. At some point, a pair of riders appeared from the snow. Meera and Jorah. They both rode hard, trying to keep up with Nymeria. 

Daenerys was still sobbing slightly, her face pressed into Nymeria’s neck. Arya wondered if it made her an awful person that she was relieved that Daenerys was distraught instead of furious. With her family at risk, she found she didn’t care. 

By the time they got to Winterfell, Arya’s hands felt frozen to Nymeria’s fur. She could only imagine how cold her wolf felt. Nymeria came to a stop at what used to be the castle gates, which seemed to be completely destroyed, and Arya jumped off of her back, Daenerys following her to the ground. Jorah and Meera were just behind them, and Jorah dismounted from his horse and ran to his queen. 

Arya ignored them and turned to Meera. “Jon’s hurt, real bad,” Arya told her. 

“Let’s go find him, then,” the older girl replied, gesturing for Arya to lead the way, Nymeria at their heels. They rushed into the castle yards, and Arya was surprised to see dozens of dead soldiers laid across the ground. They were all dressed in a similar style. 

The Gold Company had been sent to fight, Arya realized, pausing to glance down at a soldier. These must have been the few to survive the undead, only to be killed by the forces remaining at Winterfell. She looked up, and saw Sam rushing towards them. 

“Hurry!” he motioned to them. “Jon’s in with Melisandre. She’s doing some sort of magic.” 

“But there’s no magic left,” Arya protested, worry filling her up. Was there no chance to save him? 

Sam led them up the stairs and into not Jon’s, but Sansa’s chambers. Arya could barely see her brother with all the people surrounding the bed. Bran was next to the fire, looking drained, with Theon at his side. Meera went to join him. Sam came to stand next to Gilly nearby, the babe in her arms. Davos and Brienne were standing next to Melisandre, who was leaning over Jon, some sort of amulet in her hands. The Maester was standing next to her, bandages in hand, looking disapprovingly at the red witch.

Jon himself was lying shirtless on the bed, looking asleep. Or worse, Arya thought darkly. Ghost was lying at his feet, head on his paws. Nymeria passed Ary and climbed onto the bed as well, lying next to her brother.

Arya stopped next to Sansa, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of Jon, holding his hand. She looked pale and terrified, and there was a bandage running down her neck and chest. “What happened?” Arya asked softly. 

Sansa tore her eyes from Jon and smiled bitterly. “I slipped outside, on the icy puddle. One of the wights sliced me, but I was saved.” 

“By who?” Arya asked, looking down at Jon.

“Some sort of ghost of Robb,” Sansa told her. 

“What?” Arya nearly shouted, surprise racing through her. 

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” Bran called from behind her. Arya turned to see him. “The Kings of Winter will always rise again, if the North must be protected.” 

“Did you see Father as well?” Arya asked, turning back to Sansa. 

She nodded. “And Mother, and Rickon, and Uncle Benjen. And Aunt Lyanna.” At that omission, Sansa reached out and stroked Jon’s cheek. “Bran told us all of what happened out there. But when you killed the Night King, he lost his connection. What happened to Jon?”

“Rhaegal and Drogon were still in the air when I killed him,” Arya said, feeling guilty. “Both Jon and Daenerys fell. Jon was higher up, so he fell further.” 

“Do not feel guilty, little princess,” Melisandre said suddenly. “His injuries are primarily from his first death. The fall would not have made them worse. And your Maester has already helped him as much as he can.”

“That’s true,” Maester Wolkan said, uncomfortably. “His eye may be lost for good, and that limp will be with him the rest of his life, but he is not in danger from those. “And I must go now, to tend to others. Samwell, let me know if I am needed. There are extra bandages on the table, My Lady,” he bowed slightly to Sansa before leaving the room. 

Arya watched him leave before looking back at Jon. Melisandre continued to look intently at him, and seemed to be talking to herself. “The Prince who was Promised needs his sacrifice. All this time, it was me?,” she asked herself softly. “The Lord of Light makes no mistakes, no, this must be correct. His power is not magic, it is something more…” 

“What are you doing to him?” Arya demanded from Melisandre. “Are you even actually helping?” 

“I am,” the woman replied haughtily. “I am older than I look, girl. I have some power from the Lord of Light saved up, power that has been keeping me alive for a long time. I will use it to save your brother, because I owe a debt. He spared my life once, so I will return the favor. The Lord of Light must have intended this,” she added softly, speaking to herself again.

“As soon as you give him the magic, power, whatever, he’ll be okay?” Arya asked. She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her legs exhausted from her long day. She reached out and slid her fingers along Nymeria’s tail, drawing strength from her. 

“It may not be that quick,” Melisandre admitted. “This has never been done before.” She held the amulet up and cracked in in her grasp. A red mist escaped, and the red witch directed it around Jon’s unconscious body. She took whatever was inside the amulet and poured it across Jon’s chest, where there were a number of open wounds. 

Melisandre pulled back and poured whatever was left into Jon’s mouth and down his throat. Jon choked slightly, and both Arya and Sansa stood, reaching for him. Melisandre gestured for them to move back, and she quickly tilted Jon’s head up, making sure he didn’t choke. 

After Jon calmed down, the red woman stood up for a moment, before collapsing completely. Brienne and Davos went to catch her, but she refused them. “This is it,” she rasped out. Arya gasped. She was getting older right before their eyes. “He will wake up, but first, his body must heal,” Melisandre swore, looking right at her and Sansa. Melisandre nodded once more, and then turned completely into dust and disappeared before their eyes. 

Silence settled across the room, as they all tried to process what had just happened. 

Sam moved and picked up the amulet where it had landed next to Jon. He held it up to his eyes, but whatever magic that had made it glow was long gone. It simply looked like a broken necklace. “Bran, do you think she was telling the truth?” Sansa asked, a desperate tone in her voice. 

Arya turned to see her brother shrug. “I don’t know Sansa. I saw barely anything from this future after we defeated the Night King. But she seemed desperate,” he added softly. “She had no need to lie.” 

At Bran’s words, Jon coughed again, and Arya moved to look at his face. His eye was bandaged, and he still looked as pale as he had outside, amongst the snow. He was shirtless, with furs covering the lower half of his body. The cuts on his chest were still red and irritated, but they weren’t gushing out blood, Arya thought, inspecting her brother. She could faintly hear some kind of commotion outside of Sansa’s rooms, but she was too busy inspecting Jon for signs that Melisandre’s magic had caused more harm than good.

She only turned away from Jon when she heard the door open. Sansa had stood behind her, her Lady’s face back on, and was looking at the door with a hard face. Arya turned as well, seeing Daenerys had pushed her way past the guards, tears tracks still on her face, Jorah Mormant at her side. “I just wanted to see him,” Daenerys said, looking past everyone to try to see Jon. “Is he still alive?” 

Arya looked up at Sansa, and saw her mask slip for a moment. “Yes, yes, he’s still alive.” 

Daenerys let out a deep breath, and the look on her face changed quickly. “Good. Now, who can tell me what happened to my dragons?” 

The room fell silent. Arya didn’t know how to answer. She only knew what Bran had told her, but her brother had been through an ordeal. She opened her mouth, preparing to defend her brother, when he finally spoke. 

“The magic that disappeared seemed to be all magic,” Bran said softly. His voice seemed to have lost the cold tone that Arya had associated with Bran since she had seen him again. Instead, he sounded softer, more unsure of himself. “I was wrong, your Grace.” 

Arya chanced a look back at the queen. Her nostrils were flaring slightly, and Arya knew if she still had her dragons, they would be screaming now. But she was surprised when Daenerys burst into tears again. Jorah reached out and hugged her. An awkward silence seemed to grip the room. 

Sam cleared his throat, and everyone stopped staring at Daenerys and looked at him. Under the attention of everyone in the room, he blushed slightly. “Maybe it would help if we all explained what happened?” he asked hesitantly. He had the bandages in his hands, looking like he was about to bandage Jon’s chest up. 

Sansa nodded. “Yes, that would be helpful.” She turned to face the room. “After you all left, we were preparing for the wights when we were suddenly attacked by the Gold Company. They were running from the wights as well, trying to take the castle before they were all turned. The fight wasn’t going well, at least until Daenerys arrived.” She paused, meeting the eyes of the queen. She had quieted in Jorah’s arms, but tears were still streaking down her face. 

Daenerys sniffled, but spoke. “We flew out to the battlefield, but it took us longer than we thought to find the Night King. We flew around Long Lake a few times, and started heading North. But then he was on us.” She pulled herself from Jorah, and looked around the room. 

“I led the flight, but Jon was struggling. We were nearly back towards the castle when Viserion attacked Rhaegal. I heard him cry out, and when I looked back, I could see Jon screaming. But the storm got heavier, and it was harder for me to see. I did the only thing I could think to do, just keep flying towards Winterfell.” She turned back to Sansa, and motioned for her to continue. 

Sansa nodded, and began. “The dragon killed a large number of the Gold Company, but the wights simply ran and took their place. In the chaos, I don’t know which dragon did it, but fire destroyed the castle walls and the fire pits, and the wights rushed into the castle. Lord Davos,” Sansa paused and motioned to the Onion Knight, “told me to get to the Great Hall, and get everyone down into the crypts. Ghost and I started down the stairs into the yards, but it was too late, the wights were already in the castle. We were running-” she paused, and Arya looked over at her. Her eyes were heavy with tears and Arya reached out to soothe her. 

Sansa took Arya’s hand and found the strength to continue. “We were running,” she repeated, “and I slipped on that icy patch, the one that’s always there in the yards. I pulled out my dagger, because Ghost was too far ahead. I turned to use it, but one of the wights dragged a sword across my chest. I thought it was over, but then I saw Robb.” 

“Robb Stark?” Jorah asked, surprised. 

Sansa nodded. “Yes, it was him. He was taller than I remember, and he seemed to have a sort of glow around him. He had his sword, and he killed the wight attacking me, and pulled me to my feet. We were standing back to back, defending Winterfell.” She swallowed hard.

“But then the wights began to disappear, just turning into dusk. I turned to Robb, and he started disappearing too,” Sansa added, her eyes slipping shut. Arya’s heart ached. She didn’t know how she would have reacted seeing Robb again. 

She forced herself to put her emotions aside. “That must of been when I stabbed the Night King. We had a tough night, too. Some wights must have broken off from the group, and rushed us from the treeline. When I saw Bran land the dragon, I had no choice but to kill him when I saw him. I didn’t stop to think about Jon, or how high he was,” she finished softly. Sansa squeezed her hand tightly, as the room lapsed into silence. 

“I saw your mother and Rickon,” Theon said softly. Everyone turned to look at him. His face was tilted towards the ground, his eyes as shut as Sansa’s. “They came to see Bran, to sit with him. But Rickon smiled at me.” He gulped. “I never thought I’d see them again.” 

“Was it everyone?” Arya asked softly, looking up at Sansa. 

Her sister nodded, forcing her eyes open. They were red with unshed tears. “I saw Father, Uncle Benjen, Aunt Lyanna, and dozens of Starks whose names I would never had known.” 

“Did you make them rise, Bran?” Arya asked, looking towards her brother. 

“Aye,” Bran said. “I went back, to when the Children told the Starks how to stop the Others. I had seen it before, but I didn’t understand it all. The second time I saw it, I realized that all I needed to do was ask for help. And the Old Kings of Winter listened, all because there was a Stark in Winterfell.” 

Arya smiled, and saw Sansa doing the same. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. She could hear their Father saying it, as he always had. She imagined her mother huffing next to him, but humoring him, as she always did. As they all did, Arya reflected. 

“After I went back, I realized how I could take control of the dragon,” Bran explained, looking at Daenerys. “Even undead, all he wanted was his brothers. He missed them, missed the memories he had made with them.” 

Daenerys whimpered slightly. She shut her eyes for a moment, but forced them open. “Thank you for telling me,” she told Bran, a bit mechanically. She turned to Jorah. “Would you take me back to my rooms, Jorah?” 

“Aye, my Queen,” Jorah told her, moving to open the door and usher her out. 

After they left, Davos sighed. “I should go as well. I need to make sure those few Gold Company members we captured have been secured, and try to get our soldiers back to their camps.” 

“I’ll come with you-” Sansa began, but the older man shook his head. 

“No, my Lady, you and your siblings stay here with Jon,” Davos insisted. “I’ll get everyone organized, and try to get some sleep myself. It’s been a long few weeks.” 

“I’ll come as well,” Brienne said, before looking at Sansa. “Is that alright, my Lady?” 

“Of course, Brienne,” Sansa replied. “Don’t work yourself too hard!” she called as the pair of them left the room. 

Arya looked back at Jon. He hadn’t moved since that intense cough over ten minutes ago. How long would it take him to wake up? She didn’t want to leave him, just in case. She glanced up at Sansa, who was looking at Jon as well. They could both stay with him, Arya thought. At least for the night. 

“We should head out as well,” Sam said, standing and taking the baby from Gilly. “But if Jon wakes up, or if you need me, you’ll know where to find me,” He added, looking at all three of them. 

“Thank you, Sam,” Bran said softly. After the left, he spoke again. “I want to stay the night with Jon,” he said, looking at Arya and Sansa. “I don’t know what you were planning, but-”

“We can all stay,” Sansa interrupted. She looked at Theon and Meera. “If you two-” 

“No, no, I’ll go,” Meera said. “I have to go find my father.” 

“And I should check on the Ironborn,” Theon added. He looked at Sansa before he left. “Let me know when he’s okay,” he said softly. Sansa nodded back. 

He left the room. Meera moved to follow him, before she looked back at Bran, eyes soft, before leaving as well.

Arya let out a deep breath. She’d never felt so tired in her life. Her entire body was sore, all at once, as if she had been ignoring the pain when she was focused on Jon. It hurt to even lift her arms. She looked over at Sansa, who was rubbing along the bandage on her chest. 

“Do you need the Maester?” Arya asked. She’d go, if Sansa needed her. 

“No, no, it can wait,” Sansa shrugged her off. “What I need is sleep, I think,” she added softly. She looked at Arya. “Can we all sleep in the bed? I don’t want any of you out of my sight.” 

“Sounds good to me,” Bran said, hoarsely. Arya turned to look at her brother. He looked just as tired as she felt. 

“Let’s get you into the bed first,” Arya said, pushing herself to her feet. She moved behind Bran and wheeled him towards the left side of the bed. She reached under Bran’s legs, and with all of her remaining strength, picked him up quickly, and deposited him next to Jon. 

“Thank you,” Bran told her, adjusting his limbs. Arya smiled at him, and moved down to take off her boots. She laid her weapons on Bran’s chair, and silently took his dagger as well and added it to the pile. Sansa, on the other side of the bed, had taken off her furs and curled up behind Jon. 

“Can I fit between you and Jon?” Arya asked Bran. 

He nodded, pulling his legs back. Arya climbed over him, and tucked herself between her two brothers, Ghost and Nymeria lying at their feet. After she had settled in, Sansa pulled the fur from the end of the bed, and covered them all. The two direwolves readjusted themselves to be over the fur, and laid back down without a fuss. 

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Sansa said softly, into the dark. Bran made some sound of agreement, and Arya laid on her back and shut her eyes. 

But sleep did not come easy. 

Arya couldn’t remember a time when the four of them had shared a bed before. She had slept with Sansa when they were small, and a few rare times she remembered the pair of them climbing into Robb’s bed. Jon might have been there once or twice. By the time Bran had been big enough to slip out of his room, Robb and Jon had been too old to let their baby brother sleep with them. Bran had slipped in her bed a few times, Arya recalled. Sansa had been there a couple of times, too, until she too, had become too old. 

The last time she’d been in bed with Bran, it had been a few weeks before King Robert had arrived, and he and Rickon had slipped into her room, both nervous about the storm outside. She remembered rolling her eyes, and raising her furs and allowing them both to clamber under the covers. Bran’s toes had been cold, she remembered, but Rickon had clung to her like a vine. She felt tears threaten to fall from her eyes. It was still hard to remember that she would never see her baby brother again. Sansa had told her how tall he had grown, how much like Robb he had looked like, but now, none of them would ever see him again. 

She wiped the tears from her eyes furiously, and rolled over to look at Jon’s unconscious body. Arya didn’t know what she’d do if she lost him too. His eye was bandaged. He might lose sight in it completely, Arya thought, worryingly. His leg had been mangled before his fall from a dragon, and now he’d no doubt walk with a limp. All Arya wanted was to see him walk with that limp for years and years to come. 

Somehow, she must have fallen asleep, though she couldn’t remember how. Arya pried her eyes open, and could see light streaming through the windows. It was morning. Her feet were warm from Nymeria’s fur, who was still sleeping next to Ghost. Jon was still lying to her right, still unmoving on his back. Sansa was pressed to his other side, her face on his shoulder. Arya’s stomach twisted seeing how close they were. She looked tired, even in sleep, and had faint tear tracks down her face. Arya reached across Jon and pushed the hair from her face, before sitting up. 

She looked to her left, and saw Bran, just as asleep as the others. He looked younger in sleep, and Arya climbed to her feet, and snuck around him, determined to let him sleep longer. She landed on the floor, as silent as a cat. She slid her boots back on, wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, and strapped Needle and her dagger to her sides. She wasn’t taking any chances. 

She left the room as silently as possible. Arya wasn’t running. She hurried down the hallway, trying to convince herself with every step she took. She just needed a moment. When she finally left the castle and found herself in the cold morning air, her breaths began to come a little easier. The yards were silent, with the relief of victory leaving everyone asleep in their beds. Arya walked along the ramparts, seeing broken weapons and burnt marks all along their home. 

It would take weeks, if not months, to repair Winterfell to the castle it had been the day before. The dragon attacks left huge holes in the ramparts and castle gates, and Arya walked along the ramparts until she reached the largest hole. She sat along the edge, looking down at the burnt wood and stone, still smoking slightly in the morning air. 

She closed her eyes, and let the cold air surround her. It always made her feel stronger. The air in Braavos hadn’t been the same, almost muggy and thick in a way that would stick to her skin. Even the warmest days in Winterfell still felt comfortable. She thought back to the last summer, to running through the Godswood, Bran and Rickon chasing her. The others had been too old to play, but she could almost hear Bran and Rickon’s laughter. 

She was surprised when she felt a tear drop. Sansa’s words from last night, and Bran’s of seeing their mother and Rickon again echoed in her memory. _“Some sort of ghost of Robb.. Father, and Mother, and Rickon, and Uncle Benjen. And Aunt Lyanna…”_ She would never see them again. 

Arya let a sob sneak from her chest. She opened her eyes, blinking from the bright sun. She wasn’t jealous, not really. They’d all been going through hell, and it wasn’t any better for Sansa because Robb and Father were there. Or for Bran, with Mother and Rickon.

But she wouldn’t see them again. She had fought so long to get to Father in King’s Landing, to Robb and Mother in the Twins. She hadn’t even known Rickon was alive until Sansa told her he was dead. 

She imagined, for a moment, what they’d looked like. Her father, tall and solemn, just as he was the day he died. Robb would have been just as tall, with red hair, and his smile big and bright. Her mother would have been beautiful, her smile wide and her eyes loving. For Rickon, she imagined his bright laughter, his big smile, on a tall body like Robb’s. Uncle Benjen would be in his Knight’s Watch Blacks, looking even more solemn than Father. And Aunt Lyanna...she imagined a girl with her face, but Sansa’s height, beaming like Jon. 

Arya wiped more tears from her face furiously. She had spent all those years fighting to get back to them, to her family. All those nights sleeping on the ground, all those days terrified for her life. Those cold days in Braavos, the wildness of the sea. All of that to get home, and be thrown into two wars, one political and one against the dead. 

But now it was over. It was just her, Sansa, and Bran. 

And Jon, always Jon. 

He had to wake up. 

“Arya?” 

She turned quickly, wondering who could be awake this early. 

“Gendry?” She whispered, surprised. He was staring down at her, just as surprised. He had dirt and soot on his face, but he was still in one piece. In last night’s panic, she hadn’t even worried about him, Arya realized. 

“What are you doing up here?” he asked, moving to sit next to her on the ground. “Wait, are you crying? Did something happen to Jon?” 

She rubbed furiously at the tears on her face. “No, no, he’s fine. I was just...remembering.” 

He simply looked at her for a moment, waiting for her to open up. 

Despite her reservations, she started to talk. “Bran and Sansa told me how they saw the rest of our family, how they rose to fight the dead.” 

Gendry nodded. “Aye, I saw them as well. Lots of old Starks, all in cloaks like your brother and sister.” 

Arya smiled despite herself. “Yes, we do all tend to dress the same.” She felt the smile drop. “But it’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but I just keep thinking about how I didn’t get to see them.” She looked past Gendry, towards to skyline. The clouds had cleared up, and from this point, she could see the deep woods of the Wolfswood. She wanted to run, to be lost within the trees. “I’ll never see them again.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, until Gendry finally spoke up. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think Sansa got to say more than a few words to your brother. There were wights rushing the entirety of the castle. She was just trying to survive.” 

“I know that!” Arya retorted. “It’s just...,” she struggled to find the words. “I was just thinking about how long I fought to get back to them, how scared I was. I got Sansa back, and Bran, and Jon, but I wanted my mother so badly. I wanted Robb, and my father. I’m just sad, I guess.” 

Gendry reached out and took her hand. His was so much larger than hers, all rough from the forge. “That makes sense,” he told her. His eyes were boring in her skull, and she forced herself to meet his gaze. “You’re still mourning them. That’s okay. You’ll mourn them for the rest of your life, in little ways.” He swallowed hard. “I still miss my mother, and I barely remember her.” 

Arya had never heard him mention his mother. “What was her name?” 

“Jaena,” he said softly. “She had blond hair, and she would sing to me to sleep.” Gendry squeezed her hand. “But I understand, Arya. When you lose someone, you miss them, forever.” 

Arya couldn’t help herself, she reached out and hugged him. Gendry’s arm came, holding her tight. “Thank you,” she muttered into his chest. “Thank you for always knowing what to say.” 

He chuckled slightly, a deep feeling Arya could feel in his chest. “Anytime.” 

Arya wanted to say something else, wanted to ask him to stay here, to stay in Winterfell, to be with her. But the moment was soft, with the sun high in the sky, and she didn’t want to change it, not one bit. 

It had been a long week since the Battle for the Dawn, and life was slowly continuing. Soldiers from the frontlines had returned, a few hundred men from Essos, from the clans of the Free Folk, from the North, Casterly Rock, Riverrun, and the Vale. Tents had been set up again amongst the former battlefield, but the large number of dead left the new tent city seem small and diminished. 

Arya was standing on the ramparts again, overseeing the rebuilding efforts. She watched as the healthiest soldiers left worked to lift wooden beams to fix the holes in the castle walls. They’d been working since just past dawn, and the beams were finally starting to look like the beginning of a wall. 

To her surprise, she’d found herself helping Ser Davos coordinate with the soldiers. It would have been a task Sansa would have taken before the war had begun, but Arya and Bran had silently agreed to not tell Sansa about all of the responsibilities around the castle, at least until Jon woke up. They let Sansa pass her days at Jon’s side, doing nothing more than stitching away on clothing and writing letters across Westeros to update them on the end of the war. 

It was hard, the first few days, watching Sansa stroke Jon’s hair, watching her sew at his side. Arya didn’t know how long she’d feel uncomfortable, but she was trying, for both their sakes. It was funny to her, though, that they’d fallen for each other after being so distant in their childhood. Arya supposed it was better that way. They’d never really seen each other as siblings, making this easier for both of them. 

It would still be an adjustment for her, however. Part of her dreaded Jon waking up, watching them kiss each other. It made her stomach clench a bit. 

Arya had taken on the more physical efforts in the castle during the rebuilding efforts, but Bran had taken on delegating with most of the different groups, especially the Lannisters and the Free Folk, both who seemed eager to get home. But Bran had told them, as nicely as he could, that they needed them to help fix the castle, as one last favor to the Starks. It had worked, and there were Lannisters and Free Folks amongst the forces working all around the castle. 

From her spot on the ramparts, Arya could see her brother talking to Uncle Edmure, who had been worrying them both with Sansa’s absence. Arya hurried to greet them, to make sure her uncle wasn’t trying to override her brother. 

“I understand you both mean well, Bran, but she is the Lady of Winterfell,” Edmure’s voice carried all the way to the stairs. Arya dodged broken stairs, looking at her brother’s face, which was looking strained. “She should be the one here, making these decisions-” 

“She has approved everything we’re doing, Uncle,” Arya said sharply, coming up behind him. He jumped slightly, turning to look at her. Bran smirked behind him. “We wouldn’t do this without her. She’s just had so much to do, we wanted to pick up the slack.” 

Edmure pursed his lips, but nodded. “I understand you both don’t know me very well, but I do want to help. I’m not just being difficult to be difficult. We’re family,” he added, softer. “I hope you can accept that.” 

Arya looked up at her uncle, considering. She only remembered meeting him a few times as a child, once at Riverrun and a few times here in Winterfell. She always remembered him as a bit of an oddball. He looked like Robb, tall and thick, and the years had made him look more solemn than she remembered. He was the only other family they had left, though, she realized. Edmure had been there when Robb had died, when their mother had died. Maybe they should trust him more. 

“Uncle, I promise we’ll keep you involved,” Arya swore. “But right now, we need to meet Sansa for a meal.” 

He sighed and nodded. “Very well. I hope to see you both later.” 

Arya moved to push Bran back into the castle. “Very smooth,” he told her softly. 

Arya snorted. “Yes, you’re welcome for saving you. But I do think he was right.” 

“Really?” Bran asked, tilting his head back to catch her eye. “I thought we decided he wasn’t to be trusted?”

“He’s family,” Arya said shortly. “Maybe would we give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s the only connection we have to Mother.”

Bran sighed. “You’re right.” He paused for a moment. “I miss her.” 

“Me too, Bran, me too.” She smiled down at him, knowing he couldn’t see her. The best part of the last week had been seeing her brother again. Bran seemed hesitant, shy, but every day, he seemed more like the boy she remembered, witty and loving. It was a gift to have him back, she thought, softly. 

The hallway was full of soldiers, some carrying stone and wood to help repair the castle. The smallfolk who remained in the castle were also rushing around, repairing the many rooms inside the castle which had been raided by the undead. Arya had to concentrate to avoid the number of people rushing around, not wanting Bran to get bumped accidentally. 

When they finally got to Sansa’s room, Brienne was standing guard, as she often was. “Hello, Brienne,” Arya called over the hustle of the castle. 

“Lady Arya,” Brienne acknowledged her. “Lord Bran. Lunch has been delivered, but Sansa was waiting for you both. Lord Varys is there, as well.” 

“Varys?” Arya asked, surprised. What could he want? Jon was still unconscious, not able to make any decisions about the future. Was he here to pressure Sansa?

“Aye, my Lady. Sansa had allowed it, but asked for me to warn you both,” Brienne said softly, keeping her voice down. 

“Thank you, Brienne,” Bran told her. She nodded, and opened the door and let them both pass. 

The fire was burning, and the shutters were shut against the windows, making the room warm and toasty. Jon was still on the bed, tucked into newly made blankets. Sansa must have cleaned the room after Arya and Bran had left this morning, trying to give herself something to do. Sansa herself was sitting next to the fire, drinking deeply from a cup. Lord Varys was sitting next to her, picking from the platters of food spread across the table in the corner. They both looked over to the door, Sansa’s face smiling when she saw them. 

“Good day, Lady Arya, Lord Brandon,” Varys said, nodding his head to the pair of them. “I hope I am not intruding on your time together. I have something urgent I needed to discuss with all three of you.” 

Arya moved Bran to sit next to fire before responding. “What is it, Lord Varys?” she asked blankly. No need to be aggressive until he actually got it out, she decided. 

Varys motioned to the food. “You should eat first, before we get into politics.” 

Arya opened her mouth, but in front of her, Bran shook his head slightly. Arya shut her mouth, and moved to eat from the platter. She handed fruit and bread to Bran, and walked to sit on the edge of Jon’s bed. As she ate, she looked at her brother, still asleep. He had fresh bandages around his eye, as well as his chest. He looked almost peaceful, and if he hadn’t been sleeping for over a week now, Arya wouldn’t be concerned at all. 

She was forced back into the present when she heard Bran ask, “And how is the queen, Lord Varys?”  
Arya turned around, seeing Varys take a deep sip from his cup before replying. 

“She is nearly recovered, my Lord. She and Lord Jorah have begun to plan their journey down south, to take the Iron Throne.” 

“Does she intend on taking our forces, even with Jon still unconscious?” Sansa asked, almost casually. From a distance, Arya could see her lips tightening. She was more worried about this than she was letting on. 

“She hopes to discuss the topic with you, Lady Sansa,” Varys said courteously. He set his cup down, and stood his with hands in front of him. 

“Now is a good a time as any to begin our discussion, I suppose,” he began, looking between the three of them. “I wanted you to know I appreciated your ruse while Tyrion was still alive, but with him gone, there is no need to continue. I knew of Littlefinger’s death, and can only assume you three used some sort of magic to trick us that he was still alive.” 

Arya froze. She dared not look at her siblings. How could he have known? 

“Littlefinger had sent a letter to me, quite some time before we came north. It arrived at Dragonstone right before we made for the North. He wanted to tell me not to trust Jon Snow, that he was quite inappropriately obsessed with his half-sister, and he was doubting his own control over Sansa Stark,” Varys added calmly, moving to look at Sansa. 

Arya turned to look at Sansa as well, seeing her face whiten. Arya tried not to snort. It seemed that even Littlefinger had a limit for creepy behavior. “And what did he want to do with this information?” Sansa asked, coolly. 

“He wanted me to warn the queen away from Jon, saying he wasn’t to be trusted. Of course, by this time, Jon had already bent the knee, and she was quite besotted with him. I doubted, even then, that there was much reciprocity from him. I did not say anything, and simply waited to see it play out. Now that I know Jon Snow was simply using her, as well as being the heir to the Iron Throne, everything’s a bit more complicated,” Varys added, pleasantly. He reached for his cup again, and took a deep sip again. 

“Complicated how?” Bran asked, nerves evident. “Are you intending on putting Jon on the throne over Daenerys?” 

“He doesn’t want it,” Arya said quickly. “He wants to stay here, with us.” 

“Yes, yes, I heard him say that as well,” Varys said dismissively. “I do not want him on the throne. I have spent years with Daenerys, and with her dragons gone now, I am confident I can influence her positively. She still has the right name, and after Cersei is dealt with, she can still achieve great things. At least, in the South.” 

“You’re not going to tell her?” Sansa asked, doubtingly. 

“No, I’m not,” Varys said, moving closer to her. “I have spent many years thinking about how I failed your father, how I failed your grandfather, your uncle. I let them die because they weren’t what I had expected, they weren’t what I planned for.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Arya said sarcastically. 

“They weren’t what I planned for,” Varys began again, ignoring her. “But neither were you three. Smarter than I expected, more clever than I could have imagined. You all survived more than what anyone could have expected. The North owes you their allegiance, and there is no way they will ever give it to Daenerys, not after what you have all been through.” 

“Thank you,” Sansa said softly. “Excuse me if I am assuming, but you don’t get anything from this.” 

“But I do,” Varys said, smiling. “Daenerys cannot have children. Jon is her only relative. Any child of Jon’s would be yours as well, Lady Stark, if Littlefinger’s information was correct. You two would raise a child worthy of Ned Stark, and Rickard Stark before him. For the first time in two generations, I would not have to worry about the character of the heir to the throne. By giving the North it’s freedom, Daenerys would be securing the rest of Westeros an heir, one who would be more worthy than even her of the role.” 

Sansa gasped. “She’s planning this?” 

“Not in so many words,” Varys clarified. “But it’s what she wants. And I think it’s a good plan, my Lady. We all get what we want.” 

“Except for the baby,” Arya said softly. 

“No, the child would be quite stuck in their role,” Varys allowed. “But they would be prepared, unlike Joffrey, and understanding of the requirements, unlike Rhaegar. Both you, Lady Stark, and Jon, I believe, would have a vested interest in raising a better heir to the throne.” 

Arya looked at Sansa again. Her lips were pursed, and her eyes narrowed, and Arya could imagine her mind going in a thousand different directions. Finally, she spoke. “This is all dependent on Jon waking up,” Sansa pointed out. “It would be unnecessary to discuss it until he does.” 

“I agree,” Varys replied, bowing again. “We will pick this up when he wakes.” 

“Have a good afternoon, Lord Varys,” Bran called after him as the older man left the room. 

Sansa took a deep breath and stood. “That was not what I expected.” 

“Me neither,” Bran added. “But I feel lost most of the time, now.” 

“Just like the rest of us,” Arya muttered, glancing back at Jon. “Do you think Jon would agree with this plan?” 

“I don’t know,” Sansa said, her voice breaking. “I wish he would just wake up! I can’t make these decisions without him.” 

“He has faith in you, Sansa,” Bran insisted. “He would support you, no matter what decision you make.” 

“An heir to the Iron Throne,” Arya said, musingly. “You could make sure they’re better than Joffrey, Sansa.” 

“It would be nice,” Sansa admitted. “And it would address that problem I had with simply abandoning the South to Daenerys, as Sam said all those weeks ago. We would be able to help the small folk in the South as well, just not as quickly.” 

Arya turned to look at her. She was biting her lip, like Arya did when she was excited. “You don’t need to tell Varys anything until Jon wakes up,” Arya told her sister. “No need to rush.” 

Sansa nodded, and met her eyes. “As soon as he wakes up.” 

Two weeks later, Jon remained unconscious. It was at the point where Arya couldn’t comfort Sansa anymore, because she was just as worried, if not more, about Jon. She spent the waking hours avoiding her thoughts as much as possible, rushing around the castle, trying to help with repairs. She felt awful for her old thoughts, wanting Jon to keep sleeping so she wouldn’t have to see him kissing Sansa. If he woke, she’d let them kiss every hour, no complaints. 

The only time she sat down was for a daily midday lunch with Bran, normally in the Great Hall, amongst all of the people of Winterfell. If she was alone with her thoughts too long, Arya thought she would burst. 

She was eating a warm bowl of broth, while Bran was telling her about the repairs to the castle gate. At least he was until his eyes widened and he went quiet. Arya put down her spoon and turned to see Daenerys, hurrying through the hall towards them. 

_Great,_ she thought inwardly. _Exactly what I need._

“Hello, Arya, Bran,” Daenerys said, standing at the edge of their table. “May I join you?” 

Arya turned and met Bran’s eyes, who shrugged slightly. “Of course,” Arya said, turning back to the dragon queen. 

The Queen’s face lit up and she sat on the bench next to Arya. Arya turned slightly so she could watch her face. “I know this is something I should talk about with your sister as well, but I wanted to clear it with you both first,” Daenerys said, crossing her hands on the table. 

“What is it?” Bran asked, eyebrows furrowed. 

“I intend on letting the North maintain its independence, with a Stark as the ruler,” Daenerys told them, as if she was doing them a favor. “But while I wish for it to be Sansa on the throne, with Jon as her consort, I was unsure if Brandon wanted the throne, as he is the heir.” 

“No,” Bran said quickly. “I am my father’s oldest remaining son, but I have had...a difficult childhood. I need to find out who I am before I rule anyone.” 

Daenerys nodded, and opened her mouth, but Bran continued. “My sister will rule wisely and justly, your Grace. She will be a good Queen, one who rules with love.” 

Daenerys nodded again at Bran. “Yes, Varys said as much when I asked him. I want to start a new tradition in Westeros, one where the women are not passed over, and are valued just as much as the men. There is no need to waste the talents of women simply because they are born women.” She turned to Arya. “And what about you? Do you agree?” she asked, eyebrows raised. 

“The North should be Sansa’s,” Arya said simply. “And you are right, your Grace. The woman is important, too.” She thought back to her words to Jon, all those years ago, to Gendry’s words about being a Lady. Maybe there was a way to make all her threads come together. 

“I am pleased you both feel this way,” Daenerys said, smiling slightly. “It is important to get this done before I leave for King’s Landing. Has there been an update on Jon’s health?” 

“No,” Arya said, her heart aching. “He’s still the same.” 

“Let me know if that changes,” Daenerys ordered. “Time is short, and we should all discuss this together.” 

She stood. Arya stood as well and nodded at her as she turned and left the hall. She sat again and turned to look at Bran, eyes wide. “Where did that come from?” she asked her younger brother, eyes wide. 

He shrugged. “Sansa is ready to rule. She’s been ruling since Jon when South, and doing it well. Why should I lie?” 

Arya smiled. “I agree, Bran. She has. But that’s not what I meant.” 

“Oh,” Bran realized, a blush covering his face. “Daenerys, you mean?” 

“Yes, Daenerys! She’s almost being too nice,” Arya admitted. “I don’t know if we can trust her.” 

“I think all the work we did paid off,” Bran replied. “She wants us to like her, and now that she doesn’t have her dragons, Jon’s the only connection she has to her family. She doesn’t want to alienate us.” 

“Well, I hope she knows it’s working,” Arya muttered. “She wants to emphasize that a woman can rule so no one questions her rule instead of Jon’s, I assume.” 

“I’m sure that’s why she said it,” Bran agreed. “It’s wise though. She’s not wrong. Between Mother, you, Sansa, and Meera, I have no doubt that women should have more control over their lives.”

“I would be nice,” Arya admitted. “But she’s doing it for a mostly selfish reason! She wants Sansa to have the throne so Jon doesn’t have any claim. Marrying them will make him less of a threat. And a Targaryen and Stark wedding again? It’s funny, in a way, that was what started all the fighting, and that’s what’s going to end it.” 

“With a Stark on the Iron Throne,” Bran said, musingly. “Well, by birth, if not name.” 

“I couldn’t have seen this coming,” Arya said, but before she could continue, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She tried not to jump, but tilted her head to see Gendry standing there. 

“Sorry to sneak up on you,” he muttered, his face a little red. “I was avoiding Daenerys. Can you come with me, so we can talk?” 

Arya turned to look at Bran, who said, “Go ahead, we can talk later.” 

She moved to stand. “Lead the way,” she motioned to Gendry, who grinned and hurried from the hall. He walked quickly, looking around every once in a while, looking nervous. Why was he avoiding Daenerys? Arya wondered. Did he worry she was going to act against him? 

Gendry led her out into the Godswood, with the gate mostly repaired at this point. Inside its walls, it was untouched by the war, looking the same as it had in Arya’s childhood. The snows were still deep, but two weeks of little snowfall and bright sunshine made the Godswood easier to traverse. 

When they finally got deep enough within the Godswood that Gendry began to calm down, Arya asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?” 

He sighed deeply and sat on the edge of the frozen pond, motioning for Arya to join him. As she did, he began. “I met Daenerys, weeks ago, back at the camp by Long Lake. I told her who I was, but she didn’t seem angry, just confused. I hoped that was the end of it, that she’d leave me be, but she came to me last night, and offered to legitimize me, to give me Storm’s End.” 

“What?” Arya whispered, surprised. She wouldn’t have expected Daenerys to do that. 

“I know, I know! And she expects me to take it, to become a lord, and mar-” he cut himself off, burying his head in his hands. 

“And what?” Arya asked, suspiciously. Did Daenerys want to marry him? 

He forced his face up, and met her eyes. “And marry you.” 

“Marry me?” Arya repeated, heart beating in her ears. _Marry her?_

“Yes, marry you. She specifically said that. I wanted to tell her you wouldn’t want that, you just got home, but she told me to make it work,” he looked away again, fisting his hands. “I don’t know how to be a lord of anything! I don’t even know how to use a fork,” he muttered, panic echoing through him. 

“That’s not you,” she said softly, reaching for his fists. 

“I know,” he whispered, opening his palm and entwining his hand with hers. “But I don’t really have a choice, do I?” Arya thought back to Bran’s words, about giving girls more choices. It seemed that in the end, little choice existed for anyone in Westeros. 

“I don’t know if I want to marry you,” Arya whispered back. “I don’t know what I want in life, at all.”

“I know Arya,” Gendry said, looking up to meet her eyes. “I’m not even asking, not really. But..” he hesitated. “Maybe you could come with me? Just help me learn how to be a lord?” 

Arya swallowed. How could she leave home, so soon after coming? Before Jon was awake, before the North was safe? 

“Can...Can I think about it?” she whispered back, too confused for a real answer. 

“Of course, of course,” Gendry said quickly. “I haven’t even told Daenerys yet.” 

Arya nodded, and pulled her hand back. The entire situation was beginning to overwhelm her. With the rebuilding of the castle, she’d managed to put off her concerns for the future. But they seemed to be rushing at her, all at once. “I, I need to go,” she stuttered, standing up, and rushing through the Godswood. What was she supposed to do? She hadn’t felt this lost since before she’d come home. She ran through the snow, through the gate, and the castle yards, dodging soldiers and maids and horses. She ran into the castle, up the stairs, and to the only place she could think of to go.

To Jon. 

The door was unguarded, meaning Sansa had left for her Solar to write letters. The fire was burning low when she opened the door, out of breath. But she didn’t stop until she was sitting next to Jon, legs pulled up under her arms. What was she supposed to do? Go with Gendry? Live in Storm’s End? Or she could stay here, and if Jon woke, watch him and Sansa get married and make their own life, one where they didn’t need her. They’d have wolf pups of their own. What was her place? 

She felt tears running down her face, and she let them. Even since she’d left King’s Landing, she’d always had a goal, someone to get to, somewhere to be safe. But now, the war was over. Winterfell was safe. What was she supposed to do now? 

Arya thought back to a conversation she had with her father, all those years ago. He had told her she’d marry a king or a lord, and rule his castle. Could that be all her life would be? Or would it be more than that? She thought back to what Gendry told her, before the war began. Being a lady was more complicated than that. 

If there was anything she’d want to do with her life, it would be to help the smallfolk. Arya thought back to how the War of the Five Kings had ruined the Riverlands, all those people she’d seen with lives beyond saving. If she could do anything, it would be to help those people. There were probably people like that in the Stormlands, too. Gendry would need help to protect them, to keep them safe. 

And she might love him, she thought, feeling a blush dance across her cheeks. He made her feel butterflies in her stomach, and he always had a kind word for her. Was that was love was? She felt that she was too young to know that, as well.

But could she leave Winterfell? Leave her siblings? Leave Jon?

Arya looked up at him. He was as still as ever. “If you were awake, this would be so much easier,” she told him, wiping the tears from her face. “You would help me,” she said, reaching out to poke him in the chest. “You would tell me what to do. Whether I should go to Storm’s End with Gendry, as a friend, or as...more. If I should marry him. Whether I should stay here, with you and Bran and Sansa. I could watch you and Sansa marry, watch you have little wolf pups.” She left her hand there, looking down at him. 

She shut her eyes, when she couldn’t bear to look at him again. “But instead, you’re still asleep! Sleeping your life away, Old Nan would say. You’re missing the castle be put back together, missing Bran being a person again. Missing Sansa fussing over you. All because you’re stupid and want to sleep!”

“Stupid?” 

She forced her eyes open. Jon was looking back up at her, his one eye barely open, but with a smirk on his face. She shouted, and without thinking, threw herself at him. He grunted in pain, but hugged her back, tightly. 

Relief flew through her chest. All of her troubles seemed to the back. Anything could be fixed, all of the political and personal issues, with Jon awake, and standing by her side. 

She shut her eyes, feeling her heart fly far higher than any dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters, and then an Epilogue. We'll get to see Jon, Sansa, and Jaime, just to give everyone a heads up where we're going! (Not in that order, btw!) 
> 
> I also am planning a sequel, one that's a bit different than this narrative-driven story. It would be more of a slice of life story, showing the impacts of the end of the war on Winterfell and the rest of Westeros. I will probably take a bit of a break before posting, but I just wanted to let everyone what's to come with this story!


	13. Jaime Lannister I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime arrives in King’s Landing. Cersei has one last thing to say. The future of Westeros is decided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'll talk more at the end, but I just wanted to let everyone know this chapter does not follow the last one. It follows Chapter 9 (Brienne's chapter) and continues until it just about catches up with the rest of the narrative. I hope everyone enjoys!

Jaime felt the tears on his cheeks the moment he turned from Brienne. He didn’t want to leave her. But he had to make this convincing, he knew. She would never let him go if she knew why he actually walking away from her.

He rushed to his tent, collected his satchel, and headed first for the kitchens. He stuffed his bags with enough dried meat and bread to last for several weeks. If it ran out while he was still north of the Neck, he would surely die, he thought darkly, adding a few more rolls of bread. But it was a chance he had to take, he thought fiercely.

Next, Jaime rushed to the makeshift stables. There was a young stablehand with a square face feeding the horses. Jaime’s heart ached for a moment, thinking of Podrick. “I need a horse, boy,” he called, trying to hide the pain in his chest.

The stablehand jolted up, and nodded. “Aye, my Lord.” He rushed to saddle a white horse, and led it to Jaime. He nodded his thanks, and quickly jumping onto his back.

He turned the horse out of the stable, and began to ride. Out of the stable, out of the camp, and as far out of the North as possible.

The snows were still falling, but the farther south he went, Jaime found them easier to navigate. He stopped only when necessary, when he or the horse absolutely needed it. His nights were short, allowing for little sleep. It took him two days to reach the King’s Road, and another two to get to Winterfell.

This was the first time he felt regret. Jaime had come north to regain the honor he’d lost, to protect Bran Stark, his sisters, and all the others he’d done wrong. But now, he was leaving. He knew how it would look. The Kingslayer, betraying yet another oath, leaving the Starks behind to die. But this was to protect them, too, he thought fiercely.

He'd failed his children, hadn't kept any of them safe. In some way, he thought passionately, this was for them, too. His nights were spent huddled around the largest fire he could make, laying as closely as possible to his horse. He would only stop when it was too dark to continue, and would start again before the sun was up. By the end of a week, he was finally at the Neck.

The snows were lighter this far south, but navigating through the Neck was never easy. A swamp was still a swamp, he thought, even in the midst of winter. His horse was not agreeable, meaning Jaime had to move more slowly than before.

During the nights, he tried to sleep, but his dreams were haunted by his baby brother. Tyrion as a child, Tyrion as adult, Tyrion pleading with him when he let him out of his cell underneath the Red Keep. Jaime thought about all he had done to keep Tyrion alive, to make him smile when Father and Cersei had treated him so cruelly. It had all been for naught, he thought bitterly. Tyrion’s eyes, empty and cold, would limit his sleep for years to come.

On the other side of the Neck, however, things began to clear up. The weather was still cold, but there was less snow on the ground, and less snow falling. He covered more ground, moved more quickly. He still saw few people on the rode, all distracted by surviving this winter to take to the roads. The silent, easy ride was almost a blessing after the North and the Neck. But he didn’t have to think as much, and instead he was mindlessly riding, letting his thoughts wander.

He thought mostly of Brienne, imagining her continuing to fight wights, surrounded by deep piles of snow. Jaime thought of her the way her cheeks would redden, bringing color to her pale face. Her eyes, like two sapphires, focused on her enemy. Did she miss him? Jaime wondered, navigating his horse through an abandoned farm. Did she hate him now?

Either way, he knew he was making the right choice. The memory of the walk back to camp, Tyrion’s body weighing him down, couldn’t leave him. He thought of Podrick’s body, lying next to Tyrion’s on the pyre. Other faces flew by him. Arya Stark, fierce and stubborn. Gendry Waters, looking so like his father. Jon Snow, solem and denying his feelings for his redhead sister. Brienne, eyes softening as she looked at him.

He couldn’t single-handedly defeat the Others. Up North, he was but one body fighting the wights. But down south, he was Jaime Lannister, brother of Queen Cersei. He couldn’t stop the war to the North, but maybe he could do something about the war in the South.

Jaime continued to ride hard, each day covering more and more ground. The weather continued to improve, with less snow and warmer weather. His horse was still in relatively good shape, riding well and barely complaining.

As he got closer and closer to King’s Landing, he started worrying about what he was going to tell Cersei. He wasn’t going to kill her, he couldn’t do that. This was far beyond his fears of kinslaying. He'd technically been complicit in it before, letting Tyrion out to murder Father. But Cersei was his twin, the other half of him. He could never do that to her. But he could get her out, send her on a ship to Essos, tell her to raise their baby as far away as possible. Would she even listen? He wondered. If Euron was still alive, he might try to stop Jaime.

Jaime had no fears over killing _him_.

It had nearly been a month of hard riding when he arrived at the walls of Kings Landing. It was getting dark, the sun setting in the distance. There were few guards at the gates, and no signs of Lannister ships in Blackwater Bay. However, there was some sort of creature, huge and tentacled, screaming in the water. It seemed to be leaving the city alone, but the noises it made sounded like death.

He could see some ships in the distance, hovering by the shore and Blackwater Rush. They had Greyjoy colors, but it didn’t look like Euron’s design. Was it his niece? Jaime had planned on riding right to Cersei, but it would nice to understand what was going on, he thought darkly.

Jaime turned the horse and made for the ship. As he got closer, a few guards climbed down and waded to the shore, looking at him threateningly. “I come in peace,” he called. He doubted they recognized him, with a thick beard and his northern clothing hiding away the golden lion.

He stopped at the shoreline and dismounted. “Go graze,” he told his horse, who wandered towards the tiny bits of grass at the treeline. He adjusted Widow’s Wail- he really did need to rename it- and walked towards the guards. “Are you Asha Greyjoy’s men?” he called, coming to stop in front of them.

The taller man, grizzled and gray, nodded. “Aye. And who might you be?”

“Jaime Lannister,” he announced. Both men reached for their swords. “I said I come in peace,” he repeated crossly. “I only want to talk to your lady.”

“Our queen, you mean,” the younger man corrected him, eyes narrowed. “Why should we let you?”

Jaime unlatched his sword belt, and lowered it to the ground. “I’m unarmed. I only wish to speak. I come not from King’s Landing, but from Winterfell.”

The two men glanced at each other. The older one sighed. “Aye, come in.”

The ship was lowly lit, but the two men knew their way. Jaime followed them through the water and up the side of the ship. He’d never been much of a sailor, but even he could tell these men were exhausted. They must have defeated Euron’s army, Jaime realized. He wondered if the news had gotten North yet.

The men led him down into the ship, and stopped at the door to the ship’s cabin. “Your Grace, I come with a visitor,” the older man called.

“Send them in,” a woman’s voice ordered.

The older man opened the door and gestured to Jaime to enter.

Asha Greyjoy was sitting at the table, papers spread in front of her. Her cabin was barely better lit than the rest of the ship, but she was reading by candlelight all the same. She glanced up and saw Jaime. “A Lannister?” she asked, disbelieving. “Do you come with a message from your sister?”

Was it that little known that he had gone North? Cersei had kept it close to her chest. “I come from Winterfell, not King’s Landing. I’m here to talk my sister out of further war,” he told her flatly.

“Winterfell?” Asha asked, leaning back in her chair. “Did you see my brother?”

“He must have arrived after I left,” Jaime said. He was surprised the Greyjoy boy had gone back to Winterfell after he betrayed the Starks. It seemed as if Jaime was not the only one with unfinished business with the direwolves.

“How fares the war?” Asha asked, eyes narrowing.

“Not well,” Jaime admitted. “The Targaryen forces are growing weaker every day.”

“I sent the Martell girl north,” Asha said, pushing her chair back and standing. She turned to look out the window. “But it might be too late.”

“Jon Snow spoke of a new plan,” Jaime told her. “Things might be looking up by now.”

“But you don’t know that,” the Sea Queen said sharply. “I would have gone myself, but I’m still worried about this monster my uncle summoned. It hasn’t attacked the city yet, but I’m still concerned. I doubt your sister would move to fight it.”

“I want to get her out,” Jaime said, getting to his point. “That’s the reason I’m here. I can’t end the war in the North any more than you can.” He swallowed. “But I can do something about this one.”

“And you want me to give her passage?” Asha asked. She chuckled. “After all the men I’ve lost, you want me to take Queen Cersei herself to safety?”

Some part of Jaime wanted to appeal to Asha’s womanhood, but if the last few months had taught him anything, it was that womanhood meant little when power was involved. Between Cersei, Daenerys, and Sansa, womanhood meant as little as manhood meant to Joffrey, Stannis, and Robb Stark.

“I know you have no reason to help her,” Jaime said, “In fact, if you said yes easily, I would be concerned. But this is the best way to end this war. And it would start us off on good ties, something that is rare for the Ironborn and the Lannisters.” 

Asha snorted. “That’s the truth.” She turned to look at Jaime. “I take her to Pentos, no further. And I’m doing this for my men, all those who have died. Not for her.”

Jaime let a breath loose. “Thank you, your Grace.”

Asha nodded. “Hurry to get her before I change my mind.”

Jaime bowed and turned to leave the room. He nodded at the guards again, and hurried down the side of the ship. Wading through the water was colder the second time, but Jaime rushed as quickly as he could. He grabbed his sword belt from the sandy beach and looked to see that his horse was still nearby.

“Sorry for the wait, boy,” he said softly, running his hand along the horse’s mane. He had been so lost in his thoughts during the journey, he hadn’t even given the horse a name. "How about Honor?" he asked, stroking the horse's mane. "Could you be Honor, or is that too Ned Stark for you?" The horse nuzzled into his hand. "Honor it is," Jaime decided. “One more ride, alright? Then you can rest.”

He mounted the horse and rode quickly along the shoreline, riding for Mud Gate. Jaime entered the city, hood raised, and left his horse at the stables nearby. He paid for the stables with what little gold he had on him, and paid extra for his horse to be treated well. After that journey, Honor deserved it.

The city seemed strangely empty. But even then, people were still going about their business. Life was continuing on, he thought, walking by a street full of whores. The taverns along the street were still busy, lit up with laughter and shouts heard outdoors. Life continued, even with a war to the death being fought far in the North and a Sea Monster just outside the city walls.

The journey to the Red Keep was quick, and Jaime was getting more unnerved by the lack of guards he saw. Few Gold Company members and fewer City Guard walked the streets. What had Cersei done? He wondered, hurrying towards the Keep.

Jaime was almost at the castle when he heard a terrible scream. He turned back down the hill. Peeking through the buildings, he could see into Blackwater Bay, where the sea creature was screaming, louder than before. It seemed to be sinking into the ocean, dying from some unknown force. Guards were sprinting down the hill towards the dying beast. It would be easier than ever to sneak into the Keep, Jaime realized.

He hurried towards the unguarded gates, and slipped inside. Servants were rushing by him, wanting to see what the noises were. There were even fewer nobles here than when he’d left, he realized, turning a corner to go enter the Great Hall.

Rushing out of the doors was Qyborn, looking horrified. “Qyborn!” Jaime shouted. The former Maester turned to see him, and if anything, looked more terrified.

“Don’t go in there, Ser Jaime!” he shouted. “Spare yourself!”

Fear gripped Jaime, and he pulled open the doors. He sprinted down the hall, which was completely empty, except for two figures near the throne.

One was Cersei.

It wasn’t until he was nearly at the dais that he processed her screams. She was pinned to the chair, the second figure collapsed on top of her.

“Cersei!” he shouted. He climbed the steps and realized that the Mountain was the second figure, and he had collapsed on top of her. She hadn’t seemed to notice him, and was still screaming.

He came to a stop in front of the throne, and rushed to move the Mountain. The giant beast of a man was dead, Jaime realized. He was dead, from what seemed like nothing.

Once he moved the Mountain to the floor, Cersei’s screams turned into moans. It was only then that Jaime realized the Mountain had pinned her to the chair, impaling her on its blades.

“No,” he whispered, moving to grasp her. Tyrion’s eyes echoed in his mind. “I can’t lose you, too,” he whispered.

It was only then that Cersei seemed to realize he was there. Her moans stopped, and her eyes focused on him instead of the blades coming through her stomach. “Jaime?” she whispered.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” he soothed her. Could he go get Qyborn, beg him to help? Or was it already too late?

“You came back,” she whispered, a smile growing on her face.

Jaime reached for her face. Even after everything, he still loved her. He stroked her cheek. “Nothing else matters,” he told her softly. There was nothing he could do, he realized. Nothing but make this easier for her. “You and me. Nothing else matters. Only us.”

She continued smiling at him. “I knew you’d come back,” she repeated herself. “I knew it.” Her face fell. “I lost the baby, Jaime,” she whispered. “After you left.”

Jaime felt his stomach sink. Had that been his fault?

“It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered, as if she could read his mind. She always could. “I was never going to have more than three.”

“Cersei, what do you mean?” Jaime asked desperately. Anything to keep her talking.

“When we were young, a witch told me I’d only have three children,” Cersei said lightly, voice weakening. “She said I’d have three, and the king would have many. She said I’d have my throne stolen by a younger, more beautiful queen, and my little brother would kill me.”

“What?” Jaime whispered. Had she kept this inside their whole lives? “That’s why I hated Tyrion,” Cersei whispered, reaching for his face. “I was afraid.” She laughed weakly. “She lied.”

“Yes, she did,” Jaime said, trying to take her in. Her eyes, green and bright. Her hair, growing back in, curls as blond as his. “You should have told me,” he whispered to her. The moment was quiet. It required whispers.

“I know,” she said, running her thumb along his lip. “I should have. But it’s too late, Jaime.” She pulled back from his face, wincing. “Tell...Tell Tyrion I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

Jaime swallowed hard. His tears were falling consistently now. “I’ll tell him” he promised, still holding her face. “I’ll tell him Cersei, I swear.”

Their eyes met one last time.

Jaime didn’t know how long he stood there, crying into Cersei’s neck. He had come into the world with her, and now she was leaving it without him. Between Tyrion’s death and Cersei’s death, Jaime felt lost. Part of him wanted to follow them, end the Lannisters here and now. It would be easy. There were still dozens of swords sticking up from the throne.

But somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew he had something to live for. He had abandoned the war to the North to end the war with the South, but had ended up doing nothing but riding his horse along a muddy road. He owed Westeros more than that. He’d spent all his years after killing the Mad King angry at the world for misunderstanding his actions. He wouldn’t do that again. The Westerlands would still need a leader, and Jaime felt almost desperate with the need to save something, instead of letting it die in his arms.

That didn’t even touch on what his _heart_ wanted to live for.

Someone tall, someone strong, someone he _loved_.

His love for Cersei had always been self-obsessed, on both sides. They’d both been obsessed with Tywin Lannister’s _fucking_ legacy, and where had it gotten them? She was dead in front of him, and he felt almost completely shattered, as if the golden lion had instead been made of glass and pushed from the highest tower in Winterfell.

But his heart was still beating, desperately, for Brienne of Tarth. She would not be his savior, Jaime knew. He had to do that himself. But she was there, in his mind’s eye even now, a shining example of everything he wanted to be, and for now, that had to be enough.

Jaime wiped the tears from his eyes, and reached to grasp Cersei and pull her from the throne. Blood gushed out of her wounds, causing his eyes to swell again. He carried her gently, and placed her on the ground softly. Not like how he’d thrown the Mountain down what felt like hours ago.

It still almost seemed unreal, the Mountain’s seemingly causeless death, crushing Cersei against the very throne she’d used him to win. The Mountain, or at least the shell of the man he’d become, had been her downfall in the end, he thought bitterly. If she had not insisted on keeping him, she might still be alive right now.

He moved to sit on the throne. No matter how it had happened, his plan had worked, he thought, heart heavy. He was the only power left in King’s Landing. He would cede the throne to Daenerys, if she let him live and released him from his vows.

He could go home, he realized, heart rising amidst all the pain. The Westerlands were his for the taking. No one would challenge him, the last of the Lannisters. He could go back to Casterly Rock, with all of its ghosts, and marry whomever he wanted. If, of course, that whoever would forgive him, one day.

He thought of children, suddenly, of blonde babies with sapphires in their eyes. Maybe he’d name after his siblings, he thought. Honor them that way, in a world that would cheer for both their deaths. In a world that would cheer his, as well, he thought. He could feel his back covered in Cersei’s blood. He wasn’t going to be okay, he knew, not for a long time. But just like the last time he’d sat in this throne, the hardest work was done.

Now, it was time to rebuild. This throne room, this city, this kingdom. This heart, he thought, painfully. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Cersei. He thought of the girl she’d been, tougher than he in their childhood, to the beautiful young woman she’d become, giving him three golden children. She had been a ghost of herself since Joffrey had died, their firstborn, their little monster. Jaime didn’t blame himself for Joffrey as much as he blamed Robert for neglecting him. He had no reason to think Joff a bastard. He should have been a better father.

Maybe there was just something about heirs to the throne, he thought, mind wandering. Rhaegar had seemed to escape that curse, to be a worthy heir, but still, he’d kidnapped a girl and started a war. What was it about heirs to this kingdom that destroyed them? Jaime was relieved, in a way, to get away from all that, run back to the castle along the sea where he’d spent his childhood.

Even with the ghosts of his siblings, he thought, looking down at Cersei. He felt himself begin to cry again.

He was wiping his face when he heard the door open. “Lord Jaime?” he heard a voice call.

“Come,” he called hoarsely. He sounded wrecked.

The figure approached slowly, but Jaime could see it was Qyborn. “Is she dead?” the man asked timidly. Part of Jaime wanted to roar at him. Of course she was dead! This man had left her impaled and screaming!

But she was going to die no matter what. Jaime had seen enough battlefield wounds to recognize when one was lethal. It was ironic, really, because Cersei had always wanted to go to war, to wear the armor. If only she had been, he thought bitterly. A little armor might have saved her life.

“Yes, she’s dead,” he said roughly. “As her only remaining relative, I claim the Iron Throne. Fetch me parchment and quill.”

Qyborn simply gaped at him. “Now!” he ordered, sounding firmer than he felt.

Qyborn bowed deeply and hurried back the way he’d came. Part of Jaime wanted to tell him to get guards to take Cersei and the Mountain away, but he couldn’t bear to have her moved yet. He looked down at Cersei once again.

“You and me,” he whispered. “Nothing else matters. Just us.”

Later, Jaime, armed with the paper and quill Qyborn had delivered, sat in the council room off the Great Hall. He dipped his quill in ink and began with the easiest letter, one he’d been thinking about since he rode past Winterfell.

_Lady Stark,_

_I am writing to you with hope that the War Against the Dead is coming to an end, with the advantage for the living. I left the fight not because I wished to act dishonorably, but because I believe this course was the only way to limit the loss of life. I hope you will tell the Lady Brienne of this fact. One of the letters included is for her. I hope you pass it on._

_The second letter is for Daenerys Targaryen, and I request you only give it to her when your war is done. I arrived in King’s Landing, intending on escorting my sister out of Westeros, to a peaceful life in Essos. However, I found her dying on her throne, too late to save her. I have claimed the throne with her death, as her only remaining relative. I hope to give the throne to Daenerys, in exchange for being released from my Kingsguard vows and a promise that I can live peacefully in Casterly Rock._

_Lady Stark, I appreciated your friendship when I was in Winterfell. I hope I can trust you with these letters now._

_I hope to hear from you soon._

_Ser Jaime Lannister, Acting King of the Seven Kingdoms_

The second letter was harder for him to compose. He’d never been good with diplomacy, and Daenerys Targaryen was a woman who needed to be handled gently. He bit the edge of the quill, and tried to make his letter sound as convincing as possible. He didn’t bother with titles, for either of them, knowing the dragon queen would only take offense.

_Daenerys Targaryen,_

_I, Jaime Lannister, have claimed the Iron Throne from my sister, Cersei Lannister, who is now dead. I offer you the throne, with the guarantee that you will release me from my vows to the Kingsguard and let me claim Casterly Rock and rule in my ancestral home. I will not challenge your rule in any manner. I will be waiting in King’s Landing for your reply, and your arrival, whenever you see fit. Additionally, please ensure that the enclosed letter is delivered to Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady’s Stark’s sworn sword._

_Jaime Lannister_

He wanted to make sure Brienne got her letter. The final one took hours, and the darkness of the night was disappearing as he struggled to put his thoughts to paper. Sansa’s letter had been informative, as well as little pleading for her to understand. Daenerys’ letter was straight forward, if a bit misleading. Jaime hadn’t felt like she needed to know everything. But Brienne’s….

Brienne’s letter was his heart laid raw.

_Brienne,_

_I know there is nothing that can make up for how I left you. After Tyrion had died, I never thought I would have a chance to see Cersei again. I thought if I could get her out of King’s Landing, smuggle her to Essos, I could end this war, make sure no one else had to die, as I lost Tyrion, and you lost Podrick._

_I was too late. She died, killed by her own throne. My heart hurts, with the loss of both of my siblings. I have claimed the throne with her death, but I hope to give it to Daenerys, with the exchange of being released from my vows and a promise I can live in Casterly Rock, and rule my home without interference._

_I hope she will agree and hope to live there, free in a way I have not been most of my life. I do not expect you to support my actions, or even agree with them, but I wanted you to know my intentions._

_If you ever get tired of Lady Sansa and her eyes for her brother, or the bitter cold of Winterfell, you will always have a place in Casterly Rock._

_I hope if you cannot find it in your heart to come, you will at least write to me. Your words have always had a power over me. I hope you will grace me with more._

_Yours, always, Jaime_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. I'm so sorry for the wait! I moved across my country and started a brand new job, so my life has been a bit hectic, AND its the holidays on top of everything. This chapter is shorter than most of the others, by design, and I hope everyone enjoys Jaime and his no good, very bad day. I have not been able to reread this one without crying myself, so I understand any tears lol! We have one main chapter left, and then an epilogue. See you (hopefully soon) with the next chapter! 
> 
> Also, thank, thank, thank you all so much for all of the support! All of the lovely comments really pushed me to finish this, and I hope you all know how much I appreciate you!! xx
> 
> Have a good week everyone, and happy holidays, whatever you celebrate! xxx


	14. Jon Snow III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon reflects. Daenerys is given a gift. A princess arrives too late to fight, but just in time for a delicate peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My great apologies for the long month without updating. I come bearing what I believe is the longest chapter to date (11k+). I hope everyone enjoys. xxx

The last thing Jon was aware of was falling, of rushing through the thick winter air. He’d been too high in the sky, too far from the ground, and Arya had killed the Night King more quickly than he’d expected. He had been clutching his eye, distracted until he heard Viserion scream. 

He looked down, through the heavy snowstorms, and saw Arya and Nymeria dragging the Night King through the snow. He tried to shout at Rhaegal, but the winds were too high, and the dragon couldn’t hear him. 

He tried to remember what Daenerys had told him when they’d left Winterfell, all those hours ago. “Guide him with your legs, if your words won’t work,” she’d told him intently, face serious. Jon tried to nudge Rhaegal to the ground with his left leg, which luckily, was the one that was uninjured. 

But it was too late. He could see Drogon, in the distance, starting to fade away. He shouted at Rhaegal again, but the other dragon was fading as well. He felt the cold air rush at him, but he was unconscious before he even hit the ground. 

He felt lost in his mind, pain overwhelming him. He could faintly hear shouting and cold hands on his back. At some point, he was aware that he was inside, and felt hands on his face, wrapping up his injured eye. The next thing he was aware of was a bitter smell, and a taste someone was forcing down his throat. He coughed hard, trying to get it out and free his airway. 

As soon as he stopped coughing, he was even less aware of the world around him. Instead, he found himself back in his dream he’d had in the crypts all those months ago. Jon was walking, without his limp, through the long, dark hallway. But there was a light at the end. Jon hurried towards it, looking back nervously, hoping the Old Kings of Winter weren’t coming to chase him out. 

But there was no sound besides his own heavy breath. He got closer to the light, and he realized there was a woman there, holding a torch. As he got closer, he could see that she was a short woman with long dark Stark hair, topped by a flower crown of _blue winter roses_. 

“Mother?” Jon whispered, coming to stop in front of her. Lyanna smiled and reached out to take his hand. 

“Hello Jon,” she whispered back, eyes tearing up. “I’m so happy I got to see you.” 

“Am I dead?” he asked, fear rising. 

“No, no, you’re not,” she said quickly, a smile creeping on her face. “You’re not staying here. But your body’s healing, and this is the safest place you can be.” 

“I’m not going to be chased out?” he asked, feeling younger than his years as he spoke to his mother for the first time. 

“No!” she said strongly. “You’re a Stark, Jon, you’ve _always_ belonged here. I’m sorry you ever felt you didn’t,” she added, a fierce look on her face. “Ned shouldn’t have lied. Not to you, and not to Catelyn either.” 

“He promised he was going to tell me,” Jon said weakly, trying to defend his uncle. 

“I know, he couldn’t have known what was going to happen. But he should have told you, nonetheless,” Lyanna repeated, insistent. She took her hand from his and placed it on his cheek. “You have so much life to live, my boy. So much life. I don’t want to see you here again until you’re old and grey.” 

“I’ll try,” he said softly, letting himself appreciate her hand on his face. 

“I want you to be so much older than me that you’ll look like my grandfather,” Lyanna’s lips twisted, tilting her head at him. 

“You died too young,” Jon realized, really looking at her. She was younger than Arya, maybe even Bran. Her face was unlined, eyes bright. 

She nodded. “Yes, I died too young, like your cousins. But you, Jon, you will live.” She stroked his cheek. 

“I’ll try,” he repeated, his chest twisting. 

You have a girl out there waiting for you, and you better not let her down,” his mother told him, raising an eyebrow. 

“We’ll be alright?” Jon asked, eyes widening. “Me and Sansa?” 

“Oh yes,” Lyanna said, smiling again. “You two will _better_ than alright.” 

Jon smiled back, his heart flying. He was a Stark. He’d get to stay in Winterfell. And he’d have Sansa by his side. Everything else was just details. 

“When you wake, be strong,” Lyanna said insistently. “Everything will change, and very quickly. But don’t push people away. Open yourself to them. Remember, I love you, my son.” 

“I love you, too,” Jon said, confusing rising. What was she speaking so quickly? “What’s happening?” 

“You’ll see. All because you’re stupid and want to sleep!” 

“Stupid?” Jon asked, and his eyes were opening, and he saw Arya, sitting over him, eyes widening as she realized he was awake. 

Arya shouted, and threw her arms around him. Jon grunted from her sudden weight, but reached around to hug her back, as tightly as he could. 

“Oh, I missed you,” Arya said fiercely into the side of his face. 

Jon lifted his hand to run through her hair. “How long has it been?” 

“A few weeks,” Arya replied, pulling back to look down at him. Jon only realized then that one of his eyes was covered completely, and he reached for his face and felt a bandage around his eye. 

“What happened?” he asked Arya, moving to push himself. 

“Not so fast,” Arya said, pushing him back on the bed. “You were hurt really bad, Jon. Your eye and your leg are both hurt, but Melisandre said your injuries from your death were what was really bad.” 

Jon reached under the furs that covered him and felt more bandages, all along his chest where his four cuts were. They felt different, like they were actually _healing_ this time. 

“Meslisandre?” Jon asked, looking back up at his sister. “What did she do?” 

“She said she owed you,” Arya said, looking serious. “She had an amulet thing, and she poured whatever was inside on your cuts. And whatever was leftover, she poured down your throat.” 

“I think I remembered that,” Jon mused, moving to touch his throat. 

“You coughed a lot, and you’ve been asleep ever since. You were really starting to worry us, you know,” Arya added pointedly. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon muttered. 

Arya snorted. “It’s not like it’s your fault. But you worried Sansa a lot. And me,” she added, softer. 

“How long has it been?” Jon asked again, looking up. “I assumed you killed the Night King, after the dragons started disappearing.” 

“It’s been three weeks,” Arya said, face softening. “And yeah, I did. I moved too fast though. You were too high.” 

Jon shook his head. “No, you did the right thing. He needed to die. I couldn’t see, because of my eye and the storm. It wouldn’t have mattered when you did it.” 

Arya bit her lip. “Thanks, for that,” she said softly. Jon smiled at her, and she grinned back, a little stress off her shoulders. 

“What were you complaining about when I came to?” Jon asked, suddenly, remembering her words. “Why am I stupid?” 

“Oh,” Arya said, blushing. “It was nothing. I just wanted you to be awake so we could talk about something. “ 

Jon laughed, startling himself with the sound. “And now I am! What is it?” he insisted, looking at his sister. 

Arya sighed. “Gendry is getting legitimized by Daenerys. She wants him to rule Storm’s End, and she wants me to marry him.” 

“Marry him?” Jon repeated, and for a moment he tried to push himself up again, before he remembered his injuries. 

Arya nodded, looking worried. “He said he just wants me to go with him, help him learn to be a lord. But Jon,” her face looked desperate, “I don’t know if I can leave Winterfell, or if I want to only be his friend, instead of being something... _more_.” 

Jon swallowed. This was a difficult choice. Arya was still so young, too. “Arya, I can’t make a choice for you,” he said softly. “But I can tell you that you don’t have to rush, one way or another. Winterfell will always be here if you want to go away for a while. And Gendry won’t hate you, one way or another.” 

“I know that,” Arya agreed. “But Daenerys…” 

“I can deal with Daenerys, if it comes to that,” Jon replied, firmly. “You make your choices. I’ll keep you safe.” 

Arya smiled. “That’s why I wanted you awake, stupid. “ 

Jon laughed again. “Yes, I can see why.” Then he winced, painfully. “I think all the laughing is hurting my chest,” he hissed. 

“Oh!” Arya stood up. “I’ll go find Sam, or the Maester. And Sansa, and Bran!” She turned and rushed towards the door. “I’ll be right back!” 

“Alright,” Jon called after here, watching the door close behind her. He readjusted his body, and tried to relax. No need to get worked up before he saw the others. 

He thought back to Arya’s words. The Night King was dead, but it seemed as if Daenerys hadn’t gone south yet. Was she waiting for him to wake up? Did she want to take him with her? Without her dragons, taking King’s Landing would be much more difficult. Was she planning on taking the Northern forces as well? Jon groaned. It had been weeks. He’d missed so much, and Daenerys seemed to be playing politics around them. What would be next? 

The door opened, and Sam was standing there, Ghost by his side. Jon smiled, his concerns falling away. “Jon!” Sam exclaimed, hurrying into the room. As his friend entered, Jon realized Arya and Bran were there as well, a huge smile on Bran’s face. 

“Sam,” he said, feeling his entire face smiling. “Bran!” Arya moved Bran next to his bed, his younger brother smiling the entire time. 

“I couldn’t find Sansa,” Arya admitted. “I’ll be back with her, I promise!” She rushed out again, and Jon focused on his two visitors. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked, moving his fur down so he could inspect Jon’s chest. “Your cuts are actually healing, this time,” Sam continued, making sure they were snug against his skin. “The Maester can’t explain it.” 

“Me neither,” Jon replied, looking up at his friend. “What about my eye? My leg?” 

“Your eye is beyond saving,” Sam said softly, eyes meeting his. “The Maester said whatever got you was too deep for him to save. What was it?” Sam asked, hesitantly. 

“Viserion,” Jon said, eyes moving to look at Bran. He was still smiling at him like he couldn’t believe he was here. “He attacked Rhaegal, and one of his claws got my eye. I thought I was dying,” Jon admitted. 

“So did I,” Bran whispered. Jon looked at him again, and to his horror, Bran burst into tears. 

Jon didn’t wait this time, he pushed himself up and reached for his brother. Bran reached out and grasped his hand. 

“What’s wrong, Bran?” Jon asked softly, squeezing his hand. 

“I thought you were dead, Jon,” Bran gasped out between his tears. “I thought I had gotten you killed. I didn’t know how I’d ever forgive myself.” 

“But I’m here, Bran,” Jon said trying to smile. “I’m alive, and you’re alive. It’s over. Is the Raven gone?” 

Bran nodded and began to get himself under control. “Yes, he’s gone. It’s over. I saw how to defeat the Night King, and how to protect Winterfell. Jon, I made the dead walk!” 

“What?” Jon asked eyes wide. 

“I asked the Old Kings of Winter for help, and they rose, all of them. Robb, Father, Mother, Rickon, Uncle Benjen, even your mother! They defended Winterfell with Sansa and the others. And I got to see my mother one last time.” 

Jon thought back to his dream. Maybe it had been more than that. “Did you see my mother?” he asked, heart beating fast. 

“No,” Bran admitted. “But Sansa did.” 

Jon could hear Lyanna’s words echoing in his head. _You two will be better than alright._ Maybe she had known more than she was saying. 

“But how are you, Bran?” Jon asked, forcing himself back into the moment. 

His brother finished wiping tears from his face. “I’m good, Jon. I feel a little lost, unsure what comes next. But I’m happy,” Bran insisted. “Happier than I’ve felt in a long, long time.” 

Jon smiled. “You and Arya should talk,” he said, thinking of Arya’s words from earlier. They were both so young, and both of them now had a freedom than Jon and Sansa lacked. He knew Sansa would agree with him that they both deserved a chance to find out who they were. 

“Jon, can I move the furs?” Sam asked suddenly, forcing Jon back into the moment. “I want to check your leg.” 

“Of course,” Jon said, tugging the furs loose. Ghost came over and nudged his hand as Sam pulled the furs down. Jon twisted his hand in Ghost’s fur, feeling calmer with him by his side. Sam started to pull down the bandages, looking at Jon’s leg. From his angle, he could see bruises and discolorations, but Sam seemed pleased with what he was looking at. 

“It looks like it’s healing,” Sam said happily. “You’ll probably need to use a cane for long walks, but you should be able to stand with no issues.” 

Jon swallowed. It seemed more and more than his days of fighting, of leading an army, were done. He felt more relieved than upset, but it still felt very sudden. Like a part of his life was over. 

Then the door opened again, and Jon’s heart stopped again. It was Sansa. 

It seemed like a new part of his life was just about to begin. 

She rushed at him and fell to her knees at the side of the bed and hugged him. Jon gathered her up in his arms, and breathed her in. She smelled clean, like lemons and snow. “I missed you,” Sansa whispered, her words in his hair. 

“I missed you, too,” Jon replied, his face against her flowing hair. 

Sansa laughed and pulled back from him, and took his face into her hands. “You were asleep the whole time!” 

“I missed you, all the same,” Jon said solemnly. He simply took her in for a moment. Her eyes had dark circles underneath, like she’d had trouble sleeping. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, besides the top, which was braided back. She was dressed in her dark grey dress with the lines, her customary needle at her waist. 

She seemed to be taking him in as well, before she began to speak. “I love you, Jon,” she said, breathlessly. “I should have told you before you left, before the war, but-” 

Jon couldn’t help himself; he cut Sansa off and reached for her lips, and found her halfway. The kiss was soft, but desperate, as if neither of them had been sure they’d ever get the chance to see each other again. He had known that she loved him. But hearing it, letting the words sink in, made his world feel a little brighter, even with only one eye. 

Sansa pulled back from his mouth, but left her hands on his face. Jon almost protested, before he heard Arya speak. “We’ll be down the hall, when you two are done with each other.” 

“No, you don’t have to go,” Sansa protested, turning her body to meet Arya’s eyes. 

“It’s alright,” Bran said, kindly. “You two deserve a moment, too.” 

“Don’t overexert yourself,” Sam said, in what he must have thought was a stern voice. It simply sounded anxious. 

“We promise,” Jon called, watching the three of them leave. As the door shut, Sansa moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and Ghost climbed on as well, tail wagging. 

“How long have you been awake?” Sansa asked, looking concerned. 

“Not long,” Jon assured her. “Not even half an hour.” 

“Good,” Sansa let loose a deep breath. “I was up in the Maester’s tower, reading a few letters.” 

“From who?” Jon asked, tilting his head. 

“Jaime Lannister,” Sansa said, looking tired. “I have one for Daenerys, and one for Brienne, as well.” 

“Where is he?” 

“King’s Landing,” Sansa replied. “Cersei’s dead, and he’s claimed the throne. The war is over.” 

“Over?” Jon whispered. It seemed as if his previous thoughts about that part of his life being over were more accurate than he had realized. There would be peace in Westeros now, for the first time in years. 

“Over,” Sansa confirmed, a smile crossing her face. “He wants to give the throne to Daenerys, and to be released from his vows as a member of the Kingsguard, and take back Casterly Rock.” 

“So she’ll be queen,” Jon said softly, thinking of his aunt. He hoped she’d let them go, let them have the independence they deserved. 

Sansa nodded. “Yes, there’s nothing in her way now. It makes up for the dragons being gone, I hope.” 

“Was she angry?” Jon asked, anxious. 

Sansa shook her head. “She seemed more devastated. She demanded an explanation from Bran, but her reaction was sadness instead of anger. I think she’ll let us go, Jon.” 

“Really?” Jon whispered. It was almost too good to be true. 

“Really,” Sansa smiled. “We’ll be free.” 

Jon laughed, a wet shocked thing that made him realize he was crying. Sansa reached up and stroked his face. “We’re all safe now,” Sansa said softly, her eyes smiling at him. “You’re safe.” 

Jon reached out, and hugged her tightly, as he had all those months ago in Castle Black. What she’d represented to him all that time ago had finally come true. They were together. They were safe. And if Jon had his way, it would stay this way for the rest of their days. 

“Daenerys will want us to marry,” Sansa said quietly, still in his arms. “Varys let us know that she’s planning on that. She will want me to rule, with you as my consort.” 

“And you’re alright with that?” Jon asked, finally pulled back from her. 

“Are you?” Sansa asked, looking away from him, looking suddenly shy. “You’ll lose your crown.” 

“I already lost my crown,” Jon admitted. “I gave it away, and it should have been yours, anyway.” 

“You gave it away to keep us safe,” Sansa corrected him, finally meeting his eye. “And if we’re going to argue about that, it really should be Bran’s.” 

Jon laughed. “I suppose that’s true. But he said he doesn’t want that. He wants to find out who he is. But,” he reached out to take her hand, “If you want to rule without me, if you’d rather not marry-” 

“You’re the only person I want to marry,” Sansa said, sternly. “I love you, Jon Snow. I want to marry you. I’m choosing you. For the first time in my life, this marriage is all that I want.” 

Jon couldn’t help it, a smile broke out across his face. “Then, my lady, I will ensure that you get _exactly_ you desire.” 

  
  
  
  


Nearly a week later, Jon was finally up and moving around. His chest wounds were scabbed over, but still sore. His leg was finally walkable, but he found himself leaning heavily on the new cane presented to him by Tormund and the Free Folk, with a wolf head carved into the top, making it match Long Claw. His eye was the most difficult thing to get used to, as he had to learn to turn his head completely to see around corners, and to look people in the eye. Sansa had stitched him several eyepatches, made of dark leather, which he used as much as possible. 

He didn’t like other people looking at the scarred mess his eye had become. 

Now that he was mobile, he helped Arya and Bran oversee the repairs to the castle. It was almost complete, with the finishing touches being added to the new castle gate and the new forge and stables. Jon had also asked for the reconstruction of Lady Catelyn’s sept, something Sansa had never mentioned, but he was sure she missed. With peace coming to the North, there was finally time to repair what had been destroyed all those years ago. 

There was an urgency for the construction to be completed, as Daenerys wanted to be there for Sansa’s coronation and their wedding, which Sansa insisted had to be held on the same day. The majority of the Northern nobles had returned home, to oversee their own rebuilding efforts, but they would all be returning to Winterfell for the occasion. 

Jon walked along the ramparts, Sam at his side. His friend has been overseeing his healing, as the Maester himself had been concerned with some more serious cases. 

“How are you feeling?” Sam asked, as they came to stop on the wooden bridge overseeing the castle yards. 

“Alright,” Jon admitted. “My leg’s still sore, but my chest feels better every day.” 

“Good!” Sam said, pleased. “The most important thing is you’re improving every day.” He paused for a moment, before looking at Jon. “And how is your eye?” 

Jon swallowed. “It’s hard to get used to it,” he replied, looking out at the yards, where Arya was pushing Bran. “It’s worse to look at.” 

“Is that why you always keep it covered?” Sam asked, voice accusatory. 

Jon turned to look at him. “Aye.” 

“You can’t wallow in pain, Jon,” Sam told him, more gently. “Talk to someone.” 

“I don’t want to bother Sansa with this,” Jon admitted. He paused before continuing. “It’s already unpleasant to look at.” 

“She’s not going to think that!” Sam said, exasperated. He took a deep breath. “Talk to her, Jon. Communication is the most important thing in any relationship. I would know,” he added, sounding smug. 

“How are you and Gilly?” Jon asked, desperate to change the subject. 

“Well!” Sam said, smiling. “She’s with child, Jon!” 

“Congratulations!” Jon said, reaching out to hug his friend. Sam eagerly wrapped his arms around him. “Are you two planning on staying here?” he asked, pulling back. 

“Maester Wolkan wants me here,” Sam admitted. “He was going to write a letter to the Citadel, see if he could train me here in Winterfell.” 

“That’s wonderful!” Jon said, his heart soaring. He’d love to have Sam here, as long as possible. “You’ll always be welcome here, Sam.” 

Sam smiled again. “Thank you, Jon. Despite the war, despite everything, I love being here. I see why you loved it so much.” 

“Aye,” Jon confirmed. “It’s easy to feel at home here.” All those years of being Winterfell’s bastard hadn’t let him feel otherwise. But now, just a week away from being Lord of the castle, he was starting to feel uneasy. He had remembered his mother’s words in his dream, but he hadn’t found the time to sit and talk to Sansa about how _insecure_ he still felt. Going from bastard to king, back to bastard, and then very suddenly the heir to Westeros, had left him feeling unsettled. But Jon knew that he owed Sansa a conversation before they married. She deserved to know how he felt, and decide if she still would marry a man who quite honestly, often felt like he was falling apart. 

Jon saw Bran and Arya enter the Godswood in the corner of his eye. Sansa had made sure that the construction included ramps in the Godswood, making it easier for Bran to get to the Weirwoods. They’d also added ramps down the crypts, and a few along the stairs to the upper levels of the castle. Bran, armed with a pair of thick leather gloves, had happily wheeled himself across the castle, enjoying the new freedom this gave him. It was only the castle yards, muddy and slushy from melting snow, which made it difficult for him to cross. 

Talking to his younger siblings wasn’t the same as talking to Sansa, but Jon supposed this would be a good first step. “Thank you for checking on me, Sam, but I have to go meet Arya and Bran,” Jon said. Sam smiled at him, and reached out to pat his back. 

“I’ll see you later, then, Jon,” Sam told him, before turning and heading back into the castle. Jon made his way to one of the ramps, and gripped the banister and eased himself down to the ground level. He nodded at several soldiers, rushing by him and saying their “My Lords.” The castle was still in a hustle, even with the war over. 

Daenerys had sent the majority of her forces down South already, with the injured and an honor guard of Dothraki and Unsullied remaining. They were to make their way to King’s Landing, as she was going to meet them there. The other Southern soldiers, including the Tullys and the Lannisters, had joined them on the road, eager to get home as well. 

The Northmen, Free Folk, and the Knights of the Vale were all that remained, but the castle was still nearly full. Once they left, going home after the festivities, it would seem much quieter, Jon realized, walking through the gate to the Godswood. It would be another adjustment. 

His life seemed full of them, lately. 

The snow was melting along the new path, created for Bran to easily maneuver to the Weirwood. Jon walked along the path, his cane also appreciating a solid surface beneath him. 

He could hear laughter further in the Godswood, and looked up to see Arya standing before their brother, laughing loudly, her body shaking. Jon smiled at the image. He hadn’t seen her this happy since she was a child. 

Jon came up beside her, and she looked up to meet his eyes. She continued to snort. Jon smiled back at her, before looking down and seeing Bran smiling as well. 

“What has you both laughing?” Jon asked, looking between them. 

“Nothing, really,” Arya said, shrugging. “Bran just was saying how lucky we were that the world decided only Starks and Targaryens had an actual representation of their sigils.” 

“We were imaging Theon dragging a squid around,” Bran added, still giggling. 

Jon smiled again, thinking of the image. “And little Lyanna Mormont would have a bear.” 

“She’d set that on everyone!” Arya roared, falling into laughter again. 

Jon laughed along, but his leg began to buckle under him. He caught himself, but instead lowered himself to the ground, Arya by his side in an instant. 

“Are you alright?” she asked, all laughter gone. 

He nodded, settling himself on the ground, looking up at them. “Still not used to being on it for long periods of time,” he admitted, feeling his mirth fade away. 

“It’s not easy,” Bran said softly, looking serious once again, “to get adjusted to an injury like that.” 

Jon swallowed. “Bran-” 

“No, Jon,” Bran interrupted him. “It’s something we have in common, now.” His baby brother smiled at him. “We can shout at Arya together when she walks too fast!” 

Jon smiled, as Arya shouted, “Hey!” 

Bran laughed softly, but his face grew serious as he looked at his brother. “But why did you come out here?” he asked. “Is there something you need? Do you need one of us for the castle?” 

“No, no,” Jon shook his head. He had to remember not to do it so hard, it always made him feel unsteady, with one of his eyes covered. “I haven’t been able to spend that much time with you two,” he admitted. It was true, even if it had not really been his reason. They’d all been busy, repairing the castle, and Jon found himself with Sansa whenever there was a moment to breathe. “I miss you both.” 

“Aw, Jon,” Arya cooed, moving to sit next to him. He tilted his face towards hers, to catch her biting her lip. “We’re still here.” 

“To stay?” He asked, remembering Arya’s words as he woke up. 

Arya looked away for a moment, and to Jon’s surprise, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bran do the same. 

“What’s going on?” He asked, panic rising. 

“Nothing bad!” Arya said quickly. “We’ve both been talking though, and we think we both might… go South.” 

“South?” Jon asked looking from one to the other. “Together?” 

Arya shook her head. “No. I’m going to go with Gendry, at least for a while. No marriage, though. I’m not ready for that,” she added quickly, a blush coloring her cheeks. 

“If you’re sure,” Jon said, gently. 

Arya nodded, looking fierce. “I’d like to leave home, once just knowing there is somewhere for me to come back to when I want.” 

Jon nodded. He could understand that. When he’d left Winterfell for the Wall, he was sure he’d never come back. It was different when he went to Dragonstone, but that fear, that Winterfell would be changed yet again, never left him. 

“And I feel the same,” Bran said softly. Jon turned to look at him, all wrapped up in his furs. Sansa must have made him a new clock, a deep blue which made his skin look paler. “I’m going to go South with Meera, when she goes home. Not forever, just to see her home.” He looked at Arya. “It will give me a chance to learn who Bran Stark is, this time.” 

Jon reached out, and gripped Bran’s hand. He swallowed. It felt as if they’d just gotten back. He wasn’t sure he was ready to lose them again. 

“And this…” He swallowed again. “This has nothing to do with me and Sansa?” 

“No!” Bran said quickly. Almost too quickly. 

Jon glanced at Arya. Her face was tight. 

“Do you want us to stop?” He asked, softly, trying to meet her eyes. 

Arya shook her head, looking past him up at the trees. “No, no. I don’t want that. You both deserve to be happy, finally. I just need...time to get used to it.” She looked down and met his gaze. “And if that means I can go South, help out my friend..all’s the better for it.” 

She didn’t seem upset, but determined. She’d thought this through, Jon thought. Knowing she hadn’t just reacted, as she had as a child, meant Arya was thinking clearly. 

She _meant_ it. 

“And you Bran?” Jon asked, looking back to his brother, who was still holding his hand. 

Bran shook his head. “No, I’m fine with it. I’ve known it was coming since before I even got back to Winterfell, so I had more time to adjust.” He squeezed Jon’s hand. “I just want to find me, that’s all.” 

“I would never stop you from doing that,” Jon said gently. Bran smiled down at him, looking younger than his years. 

Arya moved closer to Bran, and took his other hand. “And we’ll always come home, Jon. Back to you both.” She smiled, a bit devious. “And anyone else who might be here, too.” 

Jon felt his cheeks flame, but he laughed, a booming sound that echoed through the trees. His siblings joined it, and it could have been any time in their childhood, the three of them laughing together. 

Knowing he would be losing this again made Jon’s heart ache, but nothing could take away the joy he felt here, at this moment. It was almost enough to distract him from the insecurities that were eating away on his guts. 

  
  
  
  


Hours later, Jon was sitting in the Great Hall, sorting through his mail. He hadn’t moved since his midday meal, when Sansa had joined him, with a handful of letters. With the crowds of people around them, he still hadn’t reached out and told Sansa of his fears. Tonight, he had decided. When they were finally alone. 

He moved to open a letter from the Wall. It was written by one of the Manderly men, who’d gone North with the Free Folk to check on the weather that far North. Winter was ending, Jon noted, reading along. But he gasped, the next line sticking in his mind. 

“What is it?” Sansa asked, her face buried in her own letters. 

“The Wall’s melting!” Jon told her, dumbfounded. He hadn’t really thought of the Wall as a thing that could change. It seemed timeless, as solid as mountains and the Weirwoods. 

“Makes sense,” Sansa said, absentmindedly. “It was made of magic, after all.” 

“Huh,” Jon set the letter down. He hadn’t even thought about that. It seemed as if all of Old Nan’s stories had been true, in the end. 

“Jon, Sansa!” A voice shouted, cutting through his thoughts. 

It was Arya, slightly out of breath. She rushed to stand in front of their table, faces turning to look up at her from across the room. 

“What’s wrong, Arya?” Sansa asked, slightly panicked. 

Arya took a deep breath to calm herself, and then began. “There’s a group coming up to the castle! There was a rider already in the castle yards, and he said it was Arianne Martell and her soldiers!” 

“They’re still coming?” Jon asked, eyes widening. He would have assumed the news had gotten south by now. 

“Either way, she might be here to meet Daenerys,” Sansa pointed out, standing and smoothing down her dress. “We should be there to greet her as well.” She reached out and grabbed his cane, offering it to him as Jon stood. 

He balanced himself and motioned for Sansa to lead the way. “You first, my Lady.” 

She blushed slightly, before following Arya out of the hall and towards the yards. Jon could only walk so fast now, but he hurried along aside Sansa to the castle yards. Sam was already there with Daenerys, who looked almost excited, happier than Jon had seen her in the North. Her advisors crowded around her, all looking more concerned than she was. Jorah looked particularly concerned. 

Jon looked past the people in the yards towards the sky. The weather had continued to clear up the last week, and there were only a few clouds in the sky, framing the sun as it lowered towards the horizon. With winter coming to an end, their days were slowly getting longer, giving Winterfell more sunlight each day. It was nice to see the sun still out, giving them plenty of light for the coming introductions. 

Arya had sprinted ahead of them both, and was standing next to Bran and Gendry, Brienne and Theon hovering behind them. Jon, leaning heavily on his cane, came to a stop before the group, and leaned forward to ask, "How are we greeting her?" 

"Kindly, Jon," Sansa said, a bit surprised. "She's not our enemy." 

"I know that," Jon told her, suddenly feeling tense. Arguing with Sansa about politics always got him ready to shout. "But we're getting independence that Dorne would kill to have." 

"I hadn't thought of that," Sansa admitted, looking more concerned. 

"If you haven't, then Daenerys definitely hasn't," Arya muttered, looking past Sansa's shoulder to look at the Dragon Queen. 

Despite Jon being awake for several weeks, the Dragon Queen had yet to talk to them about her coming plans. Sansa was convinced this meant she was still adjusting them, but Jon thought she might just be too worried to talk to them, worried that they’d reject her. Now that she considered Jon family, she seemed more likely to fear his reactions. 

Daenerys looked pleased at the moment, not experiencing the level of panic that was going through the Starks. But if Jon was right, he knew she’d look far more unhappy before this night was over. 

"We should still be kind," Bran said, firmly. "Just not willing to back down." 

Sansa nodded. "Yes. Gracious hosts, but no more." Just as she finished speaking, the newly repaired gates began to open. Jon turned to look at them, stepping back to stand between Sansa and Arya. 

The gates opened to reveal a group of five, all seated on dark horses. All of them were wrapped up in heavy furs. Jon repressed a smirk. Watching Southerners react to the cold was always something that cheered him up. As a child, it had always made him feel as if he belonged in Winterfell, no matter his parentage. 

Especially when Theon was the one doing the shivering. 

The horse came to a stop in front of the two groups. Jon moved to take a step forward, but Sansa put a hand on his arm, and motioned her head to the left. 

Daenerys had taken a step at the exact moment, and stopped in front of the horses. Jon glanced back up at Sansa, relieved she was always aware of courtesies he forgot. 

One of the figures on the horses dismounted, moving to bow to Daenerys. "May I present Princess Arianne, heir to Dorne and Sunspear, here to offer assistance to Queen Daenerys Targaryen." 

Daenerys held her head high and nodded. "You may stand," she told the man. He quickly did, and moved to offer a hand to the figure next to him. 

Arianne dismounted, her hair falling loose from her hood. She was a dark-skinned woman, with dark hair tied behind her head. Under her dark brown clock, Jon could see the hint of a Martell yellow dress. 

She knelt before Daenerys. Part of Jon was surprised. Everything he knew about the Martells suggested they, too, would not want to kneel to a Targaryen. Maybe the news of the dragons had not yet reached that far South? 

"Your Grace," Arianne bowed her head as well. Her voice was full and rich. Jon imagined she would be quite charming, and wondered how Daenerys would react to her. Sansa had told him what she knew of Oberyn Martell, how he'd moved through the Lannister court with ease, despite the hatred he had for the Lannisters and they for him. Would his niece prove as politically savvy? 

"Please stand, Princess," Daenerys requested. Jon assumed Varys had repeatedly told her about the differences in titles for the Martells. Calling Arianne ‘Lady’ would be disastrous. Even Jon remembered that from his lessons years ago. 

“May I introduce the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark, as well as her siblings, Arya and Brandon,” Daenerys added. At the word, Sansa sank into a curtsy. Arya simply bowed her head, and Bran followed her example. 

"Thank you, your Grace," Arianne replied, standing. “It is very nice to meet you, my Ladies and my Lord,” she added, looking at the Starks for a moment. Then she turned her attention back to Daenerys. At full height, Arianne towered over her. And Jon, too for that matter. She was just as tall as Sansa and stood in such a manner that made her seem confident in her full height. "I heard in White Harbor that the dead have been defeated, and we come too late." 

"Yes, they are gone," Daenerys allowed. Her face had tightened; no doubt the memory of her dragons was haunting her. "But your arrival remains a relief, nonetheless." She looked away for a moment. "I mean to go South soon, and an escort to King's Landing would be appreciated." 

"I'd be happy to give one, Your Grace," Arianne told her, smiling sweetly. "I just wonder why you haven't left yet?" 

Jon tensed, but there was no way to stop what was coming from Daenerys. "I remain in Winterfell until the marriage of my nephew to Sansa Stark, and their coronation to the Northern Throne," she said, almost smugly. 

For the first time, Arianne turned to really look at the Starks. "Coronation? Nephew?" 

It must not yet have gotten South yet. "Jon Snow is the son of my brother, Rhaegar," Danerys explained. She did not mention the legitimacy detail, Jon noted. "He is to be my heir, and I believe living here, within a separate kingdom, would be the best for us both." 

It was an incredibly diplomatic answer, from the lips of Varys, no doubt, but Arianne's face still tensed. "The North will be independent?" 

"Yes," Daenerys admitted. "It was a condition in Jon becoming my heir." Jon wished they weren't having this conversation in the yard. 

"We negotiated it, Princess," Sansa said, firmly but kindly. "The North will never bow again, in the aftermath of my brother's movement for independence." 

"I see," Arianne said, eyes trailing over all four of them before returning to Daenerys. It seemed when she’d looked at them before, she hadn’t truly realized who she was dealing with. "Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside? All of us?" she clarified, looking back at the Starks. 

"Of course," Daenerys replied, worry crossing her face. She turned back towards the castle, Arianne at her heels. Sansa moved to push Bran, and Arya and Jon were at their heels. 

“How do you think this is going to go?” Arya muttered to him as they entered the warmth of the castle. 

“Not well,” Jon replied, looking ahead to Daenerys speeding towards Sansa’s solar, where all of their discussions were held. 

The fire was lit, no doubt still burning from Sansa’s early morning duties, making the room warm. Daenerys stopped and stood in front of the fire, gaining strength from the flames. Arianne stood in front of her. Sansa pushed Bran to sit in front of her desk, the light from the window streaming behind him. Jon limped to stand opposite them, Arya joining his side after shutting the door. 

“I responded to your request with the understanding I would finally become my father’s heir,” Arianne said sharply, breaking the silence. She was very direct. “I meant the heir to Sunspear, to Dorne. One of the seven kingdoms,” she stressed, looking at Sansa for a moment. “If you think the people of Westeros will resp-” 

“Princess, I am your Queen,” Daenerys interrupted, voice raised. “I am my father’s heir, as well. But I cannot have children. I will have no heir, no without Jon marrying and giving me one.” 

Jon tensed a bit at words. She’d never come out and acknowledged her expectations of Jon and Sansa giving her an heir. What did she plan for the child’s early years? When would she force them to give the baby up? But this wasn’t the time, he realized, as his eyes met Sansa’s. She looked just as concerned. 

Arianne glanced at him, as if she heard his worried thoughts. “And you get to stay in your home, become a king, so you will not lose anything.” 

“We’ve lost plenty,” Arya retorted. “Our parents, our brothers-” 

“I have lost my father and my brothers as well,” Arianne hissed. “And my kingdom will not benefit from their losses. Dorne was the last kingdom to bend to the Targaryens, and only at our wish. We did not bend the moment we saw danger, as the Starks did-” 

“Torrhen Stark meant to keep his people alive, Princess,” Bran said, softer than anyone else. Everyone turned to look at him. “He, like Meria Martell, only wanted the best for them.” 

At those words, Arianne deflated. She looked younger than ever before. No older than he or Daenerys, Jon thought. Too young for these decisions. 

She swallowed, and spoke more gently. “I understand that. But Dorne will not take well to a Targaryen again on the throne, at least one who was not one of my cousins.” 

Sansa seemed to perk up at this comment, and she stepped forward. “Maybe there is a solution. Daenerys wishes for our child to be her heir, but we haven’t discussed a match for the baby yet. One of your own children, your highness, could be promised to our future son.” 

“Or daughter,” Daenerys said quickly. “I do not care if it is a girl or a boy. I want the eldest.” She met Sansa’s face, almost daring her to contradict her. 

Sansa glanced at Jon quickly, who nodded. There was no reason to fight her at this point. 

“My child will rule at their side?” Arianne repeated, still looking at Sansa. 

Sansa nodded. “Yes, to repair what Rhaegar did to your aunt.” 

Arianne’s lips pursed. “You think to bribe me with a seat for my child, but that will not put my people at ease.” 

“Dorne could be granted a specialized trade deal with the North, Princess,” Jon said quickly, trying to think on his feet. “With independence, Sansa and I will control all of the North’s trade. We could offer you a deal which will give you a privileged trade status with our new kingdom.” 

Arianne’s eyebrow raised. Jon could tell she was intrigued. She paused for a moment, thinking it over, and she nodded. “Aye, that will do. I will take both the marriage contract, and the trade deal. But Dorne will not forget, your Grace,” She added, looking at Daenerys. 

“I appreciate your assistance in any way, Princess,” Daenerys replied, nodding her head slightly. She was handling Arianne well, Jon realized. It was almost as if the loss of her dragons had calmed her own dragon-sized temper. 

“Now, if you do not mind, it was a long journey,” Arianne said, looking between him and Sansa. “I wish to rest.” 

“Yes,” Sansa hurried across the room, and opened the door. “Brienne, will you please see the Princess to her rooms?” 

Brienne, armored and tall, nodded. Jon hadn’t even noticed her following them from the yards. “Aye, my lady.” 

Arianne curtsied once more at Daenerys, and left the room. As the door shut behind her, Daenerys let out a sigh. “That was not how I wanted to tell you,” she admitted, turning to look at Jon. 

“That you want to take our child?” Jon asked, voice tired. It had been a long day for him, and his leg hurt. “Yes, a little warning would have been nice.” 

“You’ve been healing!” Daenerys retorted. “I did not wish to impede on your health!” 

“And we appreciate that,” Sansa said quickly. “But we don’t have a plan, really. It would be nice to discuss this now.” 

“Very well,” Daenerys allowed. “Jon will be my heir, at least until you two have a child. I do not care if your firstborn is a boy or a girl. Women are important, too,” she declared, looking at Arya for a moment. Jon did the same, seeing his sister’s cheeks blush slightly. 

“I want this child to be my legacy,” Daenerys continued, looking back at Jon and Sansa. “I want to rule with kindness, to fix what my ancestors did wrong, to be remembered as a hero. I want this child to do the same.” Jon thought this was a bit generous, as Daenerys was still coming in as a conqueror. Without her dragons, however, maybe she was more concerned with how she would be perceived. She would not simply be able to use fear to rule. 

Daenerys swallowed hard, almost as if she’d heard Jon’s thoughts, before continuing. “Which is why I want you two to raise the child, here, in Winterfell, until they are sixteen. At that point, they will come South, and live with me alone for five years, before you may visit.” 

“Sixteen?” Jon repeated. It felt so far off, but still, too soon. At sixteen, Jon hadn’t been ready to leave home. Not really. 

“Eighteen,” Sansa corrected, standing tall. She kept herself composed, eyes on Daenerys. “The child will go South at eighteen, no younger.” 

Daenerys’ nostrils flared slightly, but she nodded. “Very well.” She stepped forward, closer to Sansa. “Tyrion told me, before he died, that I needed a legacy. But I don’t know what the means,” she admitted, looking at the floor. “I was raised by my brother, who had no idea what a positive legacy could possibly be. He only saw fire and blood. But you two, all of you, really,” she allowed, “were raised by parents who taught you what it meant to a member of a family that would build, not destroy. What it meant to be a Stark. I want that for my heir, as well.” 

Jon was almost touched. It seemed despite Daenerys’ abrasive, somewhat entitled beliefs, even she could see the benefits of looking at the world as something to fix, instead of something to possess. It was as if Daenerys had learned something from all of this terror, as well. 

“But the child will rule as a Targaryen, yes?” Sansa asked. Clearly she wasn’t as moved, Jon noted. 

“Yes,” Daenerys said, sharp once again. “The Targaryens will rule again, with this child as the start of the line.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Sansa replied. “So why do you want the child to know what it means to be a Stark?” 

“Unlike me, the child will have two different families to draw from,” Daenerys allowed. “Stark and Targaryen. I will shape them as an adult, but I want them to know you, as well.” 

Silence fell across the room, which Jon took to his advantage. Sansa still didn’t seem convinced. “Daenerys, we appreciate what you’ve said to us. But sending a child South, to King’s Landing, it’s a dangerous place for a Stark-” 

“But the child won’t be a Stark,” Sansa said softly. Jon looked at her, and saw her face had become harder, all signs of worry gone. “We accept your proposal, your Grace.” 

“I don’t,” Arya protested. “I think that I, or Bran, should be able to visit at any time.” Jon turned to her. Her face looked fierce again, no sign of a blush now. 

“Yes,” Bran agreed. “I think that is fair.” 

Daenerys nodded. “That can be arranged.” She smiled then, brightly. No doubt pleased her plan was complete. “Westeros will be in good hands, between us all.” 

“I hope so, your Grace,” Sansa muttered. 

She acted as she hadn’t heard Sansa, and turned to Jon. “Now, if you excuse me, I need to speak with Varys. Have a good evening, everyone,” she said, as she left the room as well. 

Arya let loose a deep breath as the door shut. “Well, that could have gone better!” 

“I can’t imagine it could have been worse,” Sansa muttered, turning to look out the window. 

“But at least she’ll let the child stay for a few more years!” Bran said, encouragingly. “That’s better than nothing.” 

“We still have to throw our child to the South, where, if Arianne is any suggestion, the Targaryens are not wanted!” Sansa said, sharply. She still didn’t look at any of them. “And then our child will have to rule, in that name, for their entire life!” 

“Maybe,” Jon agreed. “But there’s a lot of time between now and then, Sansa.” 

“What do you mean?” She asked, turning to look at them. All of her bluster from the conversation with Daenerys had gone away. Sansa looked frightened in a way she did not often show. 

“When Daenerys dies, our child will be able to rule however they wish,” Jon explained, stepping closer to her. He took her hand and continued. “We will be here, all the way up North, but hopefully, the child will be able to fall back on what we’ve taught them.” 

“And maybe I’ll be down South, too, as a guide!” Arya added. 

Sansa let loose her tension. “I know there are many things that could happen. It just feels like this is all happening so quickly.” 

Lyanna’s words echoed in Jon’s head. “All we can do is face it together.” 

“And we always do that,” Bran said, brightly. 

Sansa smiled and looked down at him. “Yes, we do.” She paused for a moment, before turning to Arya. “Why did Daenerys give you that look?” 

Arya blushed again. “Oh, it was nothing. She told us about how she wants women to be more important in making political decisions. I agreed with her, and I think she took that as I agree with her on everything, now.” 

“There are worse ways she could have taken that,” Jon pointed out, chuckling slightly. 

Arya smiled. “Aye, I don’t disagree.” 

“And as lovely as this is, I’m afraid I have to leave,” Sansa told them, reaching down to straighten her dress again. “With Arianne and her men here, I have to make sure we have a feast large enough for everyone tonight.” 

“I need to go finish my letters, as well,” Jon sighed. He hated leaving from a moment when it was all of them. Especially now that he knew their time together was short. 

“Have fun,” Arya teased him. “Bran and I will stay here, where there’s nothing to do and no worries to address!” 

“Children,” Sansa sighed, her lips twisting as she led Jon from the room, and back into the world they were building together. 

  
  
  
  


When the sun finally set, and all princesses were at ease, Jon wearily followed Sansa up into her rooms. They'd spent the night together since he'd woken up, and he found it hard to bear the thought of sleeping away from her. 

And he still needed to _talk_ to her. 

The excitement of Arianne’s arrival and finally talking to Daenerys had sent it from his mind, but now, as he followed her through the hallway, Jon knew the moment was coming. 

Sansa opened her door, two guards bracketing the entrance, and walked into her rooms, which were already warmed by a lit fire. Jon watched as she walked to the side of her bed, and sat to undo her boots. He almost laughed at her sign of relief. "Laugh all you want, Jon Snow," she told him, voice haughty. "But women's boots, at least boots I wear," she allowed, clearly thinking of Arya, "are uncomfortable and tight." 

"Then I'll have the smithy make you better shoes," Jon told her, turning away from her to sit and take off his own boots. He leaned his cane up against the bed frame. "But I don't think mine are much better, anyway." 

"Maybe we're just old," Sansa mused. 

That made Jon laugh for real. "Yes, neither of us are anywhere close to thirty, but we're old." 

"It feels like it," Sansa said, softly, all jokes gone. 

Jon turned slightly, looking at her face drooping slightly. 

"What's brought this on?" he asked, reaching to take her hand. She turned onto the bed, pulling her legs underneath her as she met his eyes. 

"Thinking about babes, about them growing up and us sending them South," she admitted. She looked away from him, but he could see the hint of a tear in her eye. "Just like what happened to me, and your mother." 

Jon sighed deeply. He knew there was more to her fears from their discussion with Daenerys this afternoon. "If you want to change the deal with D-" 

"No," Sansa said firmly, meeting his eye again. "No, we can't do that, not now."

She squeezed his hand, and he glanced down to see their hands joined. Sansa's hand was paler, skin unmarred, compared to his own. He could see scars, old and new, covering his hand. 

"Just thinking about a future we can't control." she finished, softly. 

"All we can do is make sure the babe is ready," Jon said, thinking of a child. He imagined a girl, red curls like her mother, or a boy, tall like Robb with Jon's grey eyes. "The way we weren't."

"There will be more time to prepare," Sansa allowed. "And the babe will be older than either of us when we left home." 

“And we have eighteen long years to prepare for this,” Jon pointed out. “That’s almost as long as our lives right now.”

Sansa smiled softly. “When you say it like that, then yes, it sounds pretty long.” She squeezed his hand again. “But we’ll have each other, at least.” 

Jon imagined for a moment, the two of them living together, getting older. Sansa would only get more beautiful, he thought. But he, with his limp and his eyepatch, would not seem quite so attractive, especially as he got older. All of his anxieties seemed to attack him at once. Would Sansa still want him? He wondered, feeling his face pale. Would she still love him when he was old, as well as scarred on the inside and the out? 

“Are you sure you want to marry me?” he asked, quietly, looking down at their hands. 

“Sure? Jon, I’ve told you before!” Sansa said, surprised. She pulled her hand from his, and placed it on his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes. Her blue ones were wide, looking deeply into his own, looking for an answer. “What’s brought this on?” 

“Do you really want to live here, with me, in Winterfell, for the rest of your life?” He imagined the girl she’d been, once upon a time. One who had dreamed of living in a castle in the South, surrounded by beautiful things. Things she deserved. “You deserve sunshine, and oceans, and light. A place full of flowers, instead of mud. Winterfell is being rebuilt, sure, but I’m scarred, Sansa,” Jon said, bluntly. “And not just on my face, even though that’s bad enough. After everything I’ve been through, why would you want me?” He asked, feeling a bit desperate. 

“I’ve scarred, too, Jon.” Sansa retorted, voice passionate. “I bled for the North, for Winterfell! The South has nothing for me anymore. And there are flowers here, too.” For a moment, Jon didn’t know if she meant Winterfell, or him. 

“Joffrey had me beat, Littlefinger played mind games with me, Cersei mocked me, Ramsey did worse than them all, combined. I have spent years of my life terrified, and now, you want me to say no to the one thing in the world that has brought me happiness, since the moment I got it back?” 

“What’s that?” Jon asked, confused. 

Sansa snorted. “You, Jon. It’s always been you.” 

Jon’s heart twisted. “Sansa,-” 

“No, don’t. I need you to understand.” She waited until he met her eyes again before she continued. “Jon, you came back into my world, and you made me have hope again. It had been so long that I almost didn’t recognize what it looked like. But you gave it back to me, and I will not rest until you have it, as well.” 

Jon felt a tear roll down his face, before dropping to the bed. “Sansa, I love you,” he said, quickly. “You gave me hope, as well. I can’t imagine a world without you.” 

“And I hope you never have to try,” Sansa replied, finally dropping her hand from his face.”And one day, you’ll have babes to look after too. Will you be able to do that, without panicking?” 

“Yes,” Jon said, more firmly. After so many years of feeling like he was the unwanted son, this was the one thing Sansa would never have to fear. “I will never put anything before our children, Sansa.” 

“I thought so,” Sansa said, smiling slightly. “But it’s still good to hear.” 

“And we will keep them all safe, Sansa,” Jon insisted. He thought back to her words, of all that had happened to her in King’s Landing. “They will all be safe, even though we weren’t.” 

She swallowed, shutting her eyes. “How did you know this was about that?” 

Jon felt one side of his mouth twist up. "Sansa, you are good at playing the game. You can convince anyone about your feelings. But I know you," he told her. "When you're upset about something, really upset, it's written all over your face." 

"I never could control that," Sansa said softly. 

"It's not a bad thing," Jon rushed to reassure her. 

"I know, I know," Sansa pulled her hand back, and twisted both of hers together. "But I was taught for so long that it was. Down in King's Landing, the wrong smile, the wrong frown, could get you killed. And that stayed with me, all these years." She paused for a moment, before admitting, "It was so hard for me to feel safe after I got out. At least, until I found you." 

Jon swallowed, feeling overwhelmed. Her words were finally starting to hit home. He knew she meant them now. "And that's why you're afraid to send the babe south?" 

Sansa nodded, looking a bit despondent. "It feels like a nightmare. To finally get out, and have to send someone else back in. Just as it felt when you went to Dragonstone." 

"Really?" Jon asked, surprised. He had known she had been upset, but it seemed as if he'd underestimated her fears. 

"You know I love you," Sansa retorted, voice stronger. "Of course I feared what would happen to you in the South! There you were, in that cloak like Father. I was afraid someone would come North with your head on a spike, just as his was." 

"I played the game a little better than that," Jon insisted. But as he thought about his actions, about Daenerys and the boat, his heart sank. He had gone South, just as she had. But unlike she, he had been a man grown, one who had to lie and cheat to survive. He had lost all honor in Dragonstone, and here she was, still treating him like he was a man who deserved her love. This was it, he realized, darkly. This was the root of his anxieties. He still didn’t feel worthy. What was he _doing_? Who did he think he was, sitting on this bed with her? He wasn't worthy of her heart, of her love. 

He pushed back from the bed and meant to move to stand in front of the window. But he forgot about his knee and landed right on the floor. 

"Jon!" Sansa exclaimed. She pushed back from the bed, rushed around, and knelt down next to him. Jon could feel his face burning, nearly as bad as his knee. His left eye, the one with the patch, was the one not covered by his hair, leaving his whole world dark. 

"What's wrong?" Sansa asked, as she helped him roll to his back. He looked up at her, the light from the fire reflecting and making her hair look afire. Her tears had dried up, and she looked down at him like a goddess. 

"Why do you love me?" Jon asked, voice hoarse. 

"Why do I love you?" Sansa repeated, eyes widening. 

Jon nodded, feeling miserable. 

"Jon, I love you because you're you," Sansa said, still confused. 

He shook his head. "Not an answer." 

"I love you because you were the first person to treat me like a person, instead of a prize to be won," Sansa told him.

Jon shook his head again. "That's not a reason to love me. Everyone should have treated you that way." 

"But you're the only one who did," Sansa insisted. "Not only that, but you supported me, my cause, when you had no need to. You were brave in the face of battle, of defending our home."

"Our home, Sansa," Jon said, shutting his eye. "I shouldn't have hesitated in the first place." 

"You had just been murdered," Sansa said, almost lightly. "I feel as if that's a fairly good excuse." 

Jon huffed at that, but opened his eye again. "Why else?" 

"Greedy, aren't you," she teased him, reaching out to entwine her fingers in his hair. Jon felt like Ghost, soothed by her touch. "I love you because even as worked up as you get, you are always gentle. Violence is never your first instinct." 

Jon couldn't help but push back at that one as well. "I've killed so many, Sansa, far more than you know. I'm a monster, and I have the scars to match." He held up his hands, as if offering his flaws for her to see. 

Sansa laughed at that one, face lighting up. "You're not the only one with scars, Jon." To his surprise, she pulled her hand from his hair, and pulled at the back of her dress. Jon sat up, a bit lightheaded for a moment, but watched her unlace her dress, and it fell around her upper body, leaving her in her corset. She turned in her seated position, showing him her back. Above her corset, Jon could see in the faint firelight, dozens of scars. Some looked years old, some were fresher than Jon could have imagined. 

"The older ones are from King's Landing, the newer ones from Ramsay," Sansa explained, answering Jon's unasked question. "Just because my scars are hidden doesn't mean they aren't there, Jon." She turned back to meet his eyes, pulling her dress back up. "You are not a monster because the world has treated you cruelly. Scars are not a sign of defeat, but of survival." She reached out and took his hands again. "We both survived." 

Jon felt all his tension fade away. She was right. Even with one eye gone, and a limp, he was still here. Still breathing. Still spending time with her. 

"You're right," he allowed. "We did survive. But that's not a reason to love me, especially when I look like this." 

"I love your scars!" Sansa insisted. She pulled her hand back, and reached for his eye. Jon stilled his face, and felt her unlace the side, and the eye patch fell off into her hands. 

It didn't make any difference. The world was still dark for half of him. Sansa reached out, and stroked where his eyelid was stitched shut. "You're still here, still looking at me," Sansa told him, softly. "This is proof to me. I don't need a shining golden prince. I had one already, and that didn't turn out so well." 

Jon laughed, a full belly laugh that shook his entire body. "I was so jealous of him," he admitted after he calmed down. 

"I know," Sansa said, a smirk on her face. "I told Arya, but she didn't believe me," 

He laughed again, imagining Arya's little face, glaring at her sister. 

"You are handsome, Jon," Sansa said, after he had stopped laughing. "The scars only add to it, I promise." 

She pulled her hand back, and took his again. Jon squeezed back, feeling his fears calm down. She loved him. She wasn't going to leave him. 

"But do you know why I love you the most?" Sansa asked, tilting her head. 

"No?" Jon asked, surprised. "You don't-"

"I do," Sansa said, firmly. "I love how strong you are. The world has never been easy for you, Jon, but you always fight back. For your family, for your home. For your very right to be here, in Winterfell." She paused and then continued. “But you don’t have to fight for this, Jon. You are worthy of being here, of being with me. And if it takes me years to convince you, I could think of no better cause to devote myself too.” 

Jon smiled at her, feeling his eyes tear up. It seemed Sansa already knew his greatest anxieties and didn’t care. All she wanted to do was soothe them. "And there I was, talking about how much I knew you. You know me even better." 

"That's a good thing, right?" Sansa asked, pulling up her other hand to touch his cheek. "Then we can really be ready to face whatever the world throws at us." 

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Jon replied. He moved to stand up, and Sansa guided him. Once back on the bed, they both undressed, only in their shifts for sleeping.

Jon’s face tensed as he saw her only in her shift, but they’d done this before. He wouldn’t put a bastard in her, especially now that they were so close to being married. The castle was almost complete. And he still had so much to say to her. He wanted her to understand why he had been acting this way. Once they were lying on the bed, face to face under the furs, Jon spoke again. 

“I apologize for so unsteady,” he said, softly. His eyes did not leave hers. “I want you to understand why I’m so worried.” 

Sansa said nothing, letting him speak. 

“Being a bastard will always be with me,” Jon admitted. “Even now, knowing I wasn’t actually one, doesn’t take away the life I lived. Constantly feeling second best, always feeling out of place. I keep feeling like this is a trick, and you’ll be whisked away and I’ll wake up back at the Wall, for the rest of my years.” 

“I can’t understand it completely, “ Sansa said softly. “But when I think of the time I spent, pretending to be Littlefinger’s bastard, I can only imagine what it was like to live all your life like that.” She paused for a moment, before adding, “I drew on you for so much of that experience. The only bastard that I knew was you, so I had to have dark hair. And you were quiet, so I tried to be, too.” 

“Really?” Jon asked, lips twisting up. She’d never told him this before. 

“Really,” Sansa confirmed. “But Jon, this isn’t a trick. I’m real. You’re real. And we have to lean on each other. We’re taking on so much. We can’t let each other down.” 

Jon could hear his mother’s words echoing Sansa’s words. He finally asked her something he’d been thinking about for weeks. “When the dead rose, did you talk to my mother?” 

If she was surprised by the new direction of conversation, Sansa didn’t show it. “Yes, I saw her. Before they disappeared, she told me to take care of you,” she explained, softly. Her hand reached out for his, and their fingers intertwined. “I promised, and she laughed, telling me Father had promised the same.” 

“And he did,” Jon allowed. He thought he’d struggle a little bit with Ned Stark’s actions for the rest of his life, but he appreciated that the man had kept him safe. 

“Hiding a prince as a bastard,” Sansa mused. “Like something out of a story.” 

Jon laughed. “You’re one to talk! Littlefinger did the same with you!” 

“He did, didn’t he,” Sansa said, giggling as well. 

Their giggles died down, and Sansa reached out for his face. Her thumb touched under his scarred eye. “I’ve never been as happy as I am with you,” she admitted. “You make me feel light.” 

“Me neither,” he admitted. “You make every dark day seem brighter. Even during the war, during the worst days, just getting a letter from you made my day that much better.” 

Sansa smiled at his last admission, and a silence fell over them. Jon watched her eyes slide shut, and the sweetness of sleep fell over her. He felt a smile creep across his face. She had heard him, heard his fears, and told him she would not give up on him. They both had scars from their past, Jon realized. It was up to them both to help each other manage them, and help each other push together and build a future together. For both of them, and for the North as well. 

Jon watched Sansa until sleep called to him as well, taking him into his dreams, which could not possibly be better than the days he hoped they had coming in their future. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your support. We have one more chapter, which is functionally a bit of an epilogue, as I originally planned on this being the end. But the desire to write a wedding, and a coronation, was too strong. So one more, to wrap everything up.


	15. Epilogue: Sansa III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coronation, a wedding, a rebirth.

From this angle at her vanity, Sansa could just see the sunlight shining through her window. She’d been outside earlier, walking to both the newly constructed Sept and the Weirwood Grove, trying to draw strength from both for what was to come later in the day. 

The Sept still smelled new, like freshly chopped wood and the very hint of holly. It was too new for her to draw from the idea of her mother kneeling on this floor and praying, but Sansa took comfort in imagining her walking through the rows of a building built in the very same place. She didn’t pray anymore; she meant what she said to Petyr all those moons ago. Sansa hoped maybe one day she’d be able to pray to the gods again, to see the beauty in the unknown. 

She wasn’t quite there yet. 

The remaining supply of dragon steel had gone into the detailing, making the design of the Sept almost a monument to the ordeal they had gone through. Empty windows lined the walls, but Jon had told her he'd sent out orders for stained glass, as they'd once had, all the way from Essos. Sansa had teared up at this reveal, understanding that Jon was doing this all for her. 

She hadn't had the heart to tell him that she doubted she'd ever pray here, not anymore, but it seemed important for the seat of the North to have a Sept, even if most Northerners didn't follow the Seven. It seemed diplomatic in a way Sansa imagined Catelyn Stark would appreciate, even if it hadn't been a building built for her Faith. 

But that was what it was to Sansa, really; a tribute to the woman her mother had been. Fierce, yet diplomatic, loving, yet determined. Sansa missed her every day, and walking through the Sept on the morning of her wedding only increased that ache. 

She was having her third wedding without her mother, but this time, Sansa could almost feel her here in spirit, just as Bran had seen her. Bran hadn't really been able to describe her; when pressed, he had explained he was too overwhelmed to even process the clothes she had been wearing. 

But Sansa imagined her smiling at her, turning from kneeling in front of the Mother, telling her she was proud. Her hair was braided back, as it always was, and she was dressed in a dress that married Tully blue and Stark Grey. 

It was this image she carried with her. 

The Weirwood offered its own conflicting feelings. The grove had already been decorated, rows of candles and flowers set out for the ceremony that evening. Sansa could see a different echo, the echo of her marriage to Ramsay, and it sent her stomach twisting. But this was a new beginning, she thought, sitting down, back against the tree, looking out at the pond. 

Sansa closed her eyes, and thought of her father, sitting in this spot. She was truly taking up her legacy now, she mused. His legacy, Robb’s legacy. The legacy of Bran the Builder, of Theon the Hungry Wolf, all the way through Torrhen Stark, the King that knelt. 

The Starks would kneel no longer. 

Sadly, she could not sit in the snow for the entire day, and instead whisked herself inside, where she had finishing touches to complete both on her dress, and on Jon’s new cloak. 

Sansa had decided, weeks ago, to hold the coronation first, even as everyone else insisted on during it the other way around so she and Jon could be crowned together. She had refused. She wanted to marry Jon as a Queen, because as Queen, no one could question the way she had planned the ceremony to be enacted. 

She was to give herself away, at least in words. Sansa had asked Bran to walk her to the Godswood, and asked him to perform the ceremony as well. She knew no one who would be a better representative for the old gods. But she’d insisted on combining some aspects of a marriage under the Seven, as well. It felt like combining the two sides of her into one. Jon had agreed, telling her to have it performed however she wished.

Sansa felt touched by Jon’s words, but had wanted him to be involved as well. She had told him to present himself with whatever names he wanted during the ceremony. Stark, Snow, Targaryen, she didn’t care. She just wanted him to do what felt right. 

Jon had always been haunted by his identity, but Sansa was beginning to see hints that he was coming to terms with the man he was today. He was refusing to let himself be defined by his parents, by the circumstances of his birth. Instead, he was embracing the man he’d become. 

Sansa couldn’t wait to see him further grow into this man, to be by his side, building a life together.

She’d also refused to wear two different dresses, and instead, and spent her time combining all of the aspects of a wedding gown with everything she could imagine a coronation dress would need to be. She had done the white dress marriage twice, and everyone would agree they hadn’t ended well. Sansa needed a different sort of wedding, this time. 

One where she could make happy memories. 

So now she sat, half-dressed in her shift, allowing one of her maids to pull back on her hair, preparing it for the ceremonies to come. The one pulling her head back was called Alys, as many girls in the North were. She was from Wintertown, and had fled to Winterfell during the war. Sansa had met her at one of the many sewing circles she’d attended, and was impressed with her, a woman just a few years younger than herself. Alys had a pile of younger siblings, leading her to be quite adept at braiding hair, and after Wintertown was rebuilt, she planned on returning, and opening up her own inn and pub, to be in charge of her destiny. 

When Sansa had heard of her plans, she offered to take the woman on as a maid until she left, helping her earn some coin for her plans. Alys had eagerly agreed, and though Sansa would miss her when she left, she appreciated the work Alys was putting in now. 

Her other maid was none other than her old friend, Jeyne Poole. When Edmure Tully had returned North again for the ceremonies, he had returned with a familiar face. Jeyne was quieter than Sansa had remembered, but when they’d seen each other in the Great Hall, they’d rushed at each other like they were girls again. 

Jeyne still had not spoken much about what she had been through, but Sansa knew to give her time. She knew how long it had taken herself to open up to Jon, and she wanted to be a steady presence for her friend. She offered Jeyne any position she wanted in the castle, and was surprised when all she asked for was to be a maid. There was nothing she’d deny her, either way, and now Jeyne was standing at her closet, pulling out the elaborate dress Sansa had spent the better part of two months completing. 

Alys was braiding back the front of Sansa's hair, just as she'd worn it as a child. The rest would fall down her back in a thick braid, just as her mother's had, in her memory. Her hair would be topped with a crown made of two direwolves, welded by Gendry. Sansa had only seen the sketches, but Arya insisted that both Sansa's crown, and Jon's, made to match it, were worthy of any ruler.

When Alys was done, Jeyne would help Sansa dress. They had maybe an hour left before the coronation, after which Sansa would address the crowd. Then about an hour break, as everyone would head outside before the wedding. It would be followed by a grand feast, where Jon insisted no bedding would occur. Sansa had been grateful that Jon knew her concerns before she even had to verbalize them. 

The hour left would be just enough to get her into her dress. Sansa had started on it weeks ago, and had used bits and pieces of a number of her old dresses, and whatever else was available in the castle. 

Her dress was not quite white, but a deep grey. She'd been married in a dress as white as Snow, and another a sort of Lannister yellow-white. Sansa knew she hadn't wanted that, a third time. Her wedding and coronation dress would be the same, as she would be queen and wife, and wife and queen. The two titles would be tied together, and Sansa didn't want to separate them. 

The dress would be lined with deep red Weirwood leaves, tying Sansa to her roots, no matter if she was in the Great Hall or standing within the grove. Her bodice would be the same deep grey, but unlike all the dresses she'd worn since returning to Winterfell, she would not be caged in any longer. The grey would be smooth, yet stitched with thin grey and dark blue lines, symbolizing the conversation she’d had with Jon, a few weeks ago, about how scars were something you would always carry with you.

She'd topped the dress with a fur lining, made from the remaining fabric from Jon's old Night's Watch cloak. When he'd seen what she was doing, he had protested, thinking he'd be wearing it before she cloaked him before the Weirwood. Sansa had laughed at that. "Jon," she'd managed to say. "You are not coming to me as a member of the Night's Watch. You are coming as a former King in the North, as the heir to the remaining kingdoms of Westeros. You are not the man from Wall, no longer." 

He'd blushed at that, but agreed to Sansa's insistence that he wear the cloak she'd presented him at the Wall. She had a greater cloak waiting for him, after. 

Alys pulled at her hair, as the door opened. Sansa squinted through the mirror, making out Arya's face, red from running. 

"Is everyone prepared, down there?" she asked, anxious that she could not be in the Great Hall and the kitchens, making sure everything was running smoothly. 

"Stop worrying," Arya told her, dismissively. She came to stand within Sansa's eyesight. Her hair was neat, and she was wearing one of the leather dresses Sansa had made her right after she returned to Winterfell. Her hands were behind her back, and Sansa could just see a brown burlap sack within her grasp.

"What are you holding?" Sansa asked, old worries in her chest. What if Arya decided to pull one of her pranks? 

"Like I already said, stop worrying!" Arya insisted, rolling her eyes. "Nothing bad, I promise. Can you just let a surprise be a surprise?" 

Sansa felt guilty, suddenly, her old concerns about Arya flaring up. "Sorry, sorry," she apologized, wincing as Alys pulled her hair. 

Arya snorted. "I know." She turned and walked back to where Jeyne was standing. "Are you going to have time to get into your dress?" 

"Yes, plenty of time." Sansa replied. She knew Arya was doing something, but decided she'd just let her be. She trusted Arya, despite her worst instincts. 

"How are you, Jeyne?" she heard Arya ask, but Alys spoke at the same time. 

"Your hair should be ready, my Lady!" Sansa turned back to look at her. The younger woman was smiling, if a bit nervously. 

"Thank you Alys," Sansa said, warmly, as she met her eyes. "You can go now, if you wish." 

"Thank you, my Lady." She swept into a deep curtsy, before leaving the room. Sansa stood, and walked towards her sisters, one by blood, and one by choice. 

To her surprise, both of them were giggling. Sansa raised her eyebrow, coming to stand before them. "What's this about?"

"Oh, just talking about all of the ridiculous things we did as children," Arya said, loosely. "All those times we chased after each other in the yards." Sansa tried to control her smile. She'd worried, a bit, when Jeyne had returned, that Arya would lash out as she had when she'd first arrived. Jeyne and Arya had never gotten along, both jealous of each other in ways they'd never been able to verbalize. But unlike how she was with Theon, Arya seemed to hold no grudge against Jeyne Poole. 

Jeyne, as she was most days, was quiet, but Sansa knew better than anyone that trauma had a way of giving one a new perspective on their childhood. 

"But I need to go," Arya said, face sobering. "I have to get Bran into place before the hall fills up." She still had the bag in her hand, but she reached out to take one of Sansa's. "You'll do great," she said, eagerly. Sansa barely had time to squeeze back before Arya was gone. 

"Alright," Jeyne said brightly. "Let's get you into this dress." First, she handed Sansa a fresh shift, and as she was changing into it, Jeyne moved to pull down the body of the gown. Sansa had stitched the sleeves separately, not wanting the entire dress to get too unwieldy. 

Jeyne turned to face her after Sansa was dressed, old shift lying at her feet. "Can you believe this is happening?" Jeyne asked, moving to hold the dress so Sansa could step inside. "That you're going to be Queen of the North? And marry Jon Snow, of all people?" 

Sansa laughed. To Jeyne, who had only been back for a week, it would seem a bit unreal. "He's leagues better than my other husbands, even you have to agree with that!" 

"Oh, I'm sure Jon will be a fine husband!" Jeyne said quickly. "It's just all such a surprise, that's all. I wouldn't believe it, if someone had told me as at eleven!" 

Sansa couldn't disagree with that, she thought, as Jeyne pulled the dress snug to her chest. It was warm, and would no doubt make her overheat in the Great Hall, with all of the fires lit, but she knew she'd appreciate it once they were outside. 

As Jeyne began to lace up the back of the dress, Sansa asked, "Are you happy to be back, Jeyne?"

There was silence, for a moment, and then Jeyne spoke. "Winterfell was my home. I am happy to be back. It is the only place I have happy memories," Jeyne whispered. 

"I understand," Sansa said, softly. 

"I will tell you what I went through, Sansa, I promise," her old friend told her. Sansa thought it might be easier, with her face hidden from view. "I'm just not quite ready, yet." 

"Take all the time you need," Sansa said, gently. "We have the rest of our lives."

She heard Jeyne sniffle behind her, but before she could turn to hold her, Jeyne protested. "No, don't move! I'm still tying your dress." 

Sansa laughed for a moment, before disregarding her completely. Nothing could keep her from hugging her friend. 

They must have stood there for several minutes, clutching at each other, until Jeyne let out a wet laugh. "We should probably get my tears away from your hair, before we have to call Alys back in!" 

Sansa laughed as well, and finally let Jeyne go. Her friend looked just as Sansa had remembered her, if a bit taller and thinner. Her bright dark eyes were still there, just a little haunted. Her hair was braided back as it had been in their childhood, and her smile was just the same. 

"Let's get the rest of the dress on before Arya comes back to shout at us," Sansa suggested, leading them both to giggles again. 

After they'd recovered, Jeyne finished tying the back of her dress, and moved to attach the sleeves as well. Sansa stood as still as possible, trying to make this easier for Jeyne. 

As the second sleeve was being wedged on, there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Sansa called, relieved they were almost done. 

Brienne entered, dressed in a new set of deep grey armor. Sansa smiled, seeing her move as if she was still getting used to it. She’d had it sent to Brienne’s quarters, with the request that she wear it tonight. 

“I did as you requested, my Lady,” Brienne said, coming to stand in front of Sansa and Jeyne. “But I must admit,” she paused, licking her lips, “I do not understand why you would gift me something so extravagant?” 

Sansa’s smile widened. “I had to present the Captain of my Queensguard an appropriate suit of armor, did I not?” She’d been planning on this for weeks now, since the battles had been won, and the forge had been repaired. Gendry had worked day and night the last week to get both the armor and the crowns ready for today. Sansa was happy he’d agreed to do it, especially considering he was just days away from heading South to be a Lord. 

Brienne’s mouth almost comically fell open. Sansa could hear Jeyne giggling in the background. “But, my Lady-” Brienne began, but Sansa cut her off. 

“I’m not insisting you remain in Winterfell, pledge yourself to the Northern Crown, and promise to never marry. I saw, better than anyone, the type of people that attracts to the Kingsguards,” Sansa said, darkly. Some of her worst memories involved being beaten and slapped by grown men of Joffrey’s Kingsguard, long before she was grown herself. 

“I want you to serve me, now, just as you were previously. But if, and when, you decide you need to move on,” Sansa explained, thinking of Jaime Lannister’s letter, “You only need ask.” 

Brienne’s cheeks reddened at the implication. “Lady Sansa, I must admit, I still do not know where my heart lies. It was hurt, badly.” 

“And that is your right,” Sansa told her, fiercely. “But if it changes, or if it is led in a different direction, you have my blessing to leave.” 

Brienne’s nerves faded, and she looked almost shy. “Then I accept, my Lady.” 

“I am glad!” Sansa exclaimed. She moved to grasp Brienne’s hand, but Jeyne was still tying up her sleeves. “I do not plan on a specific number of guards, only that you name those you believe deserving. We are not bound to sevens here in the North,” Sansa explained. She’d had weeks to think about it, and it was something that felt right. It would allow the guard to change as needed, if families grew or contracted. 

“Very wise, my Lady,” Brienne said, nodding her head. “When I have a few, I will present them to you.” 

“Excellent,” Sansa smiled. Jeyne stepped forward as well, eyes tracking her dress. “Are we ready, Jeyne? I’m sure that’s why Brienne arrived in the first place.” 

“Yes, I believe you are,” Jeyne answered, reaching out to adjust a loose thread. “I’ll head down now, if you don’t mind.” 

“Go,” Sansa encouraged her. “I’ll see you later.” 

Jeyne reached out and grasped her hand, and left the room. Sansa watched her go, before looking up at Brienne. “Is it time?” 

“We have a few more moments,” Brienne replied, seeming to be in no rush. “My Lady, I must ask you, before we go...are you sure?” 

Sansa felt her own mouth fall open in surprise. Was she sure? There was no time for doubts, not now. She’d made these promises for the North to be free. There was no way to change them without risking Daenerys’ anger. And besides...she didn’t want to. 

For once in her life, she was preparing to walk down not one, but two aisles, and she was excited. There was no fear, no worry, just a lighthearted joy that her life was finally, finally, falling into place. 

She could imagine why Brienne would be concerned, especially after everything Jaime had put her through, but Jon was not Jaime. Jon was Jon. And he would be her King. 

“I am,” she told Brienne. “I am sure about the throne, about Jon, about all of it.” Her Knight, a woman of few words, would need no more than that.

Brienne’s smile grew. “Then my Lady, I believe we have a coronation to attend.” She moved to hold the door open, and Sansa took a deep breath, and followed her from the room. She could hear, even from two floors up, the chatter and noise from the Great Hall. It must be packed, Sansa realized. They’d had guests arriving for over a week, from the North, family from the South, and even a few nobles from Essos. There’d been a number from Meeren that Daenerys had seemed particularly eager to avoid. 

Sansa had handled worse nerves than these, but she could still feel butterflies bubbling up in her stomach. She’d prepared the best she could, between designing an almost completely new ceremony, based only on what stories she and her siblings knew about the Old Kings of Winter, and what felt right. Her dress represented not just the North, but the members of her family. A dress that was Tully blue and grey for both her mother and her father. The leaves of the Weirwood for Bran. The remaining bits of Jon’s cloak from the Night’s Watch, ratty and wild like Rickon. It was cut to fall on one side, like Arya’s preferred outfits. The lines on the front of her dress, some deep grey for Robb, others a sea blue, for Theon. The roots spreading across the back of her dress for the Old Kings of Winter. A crown, with two wolves, for her and Jon. 

She’d practiced her speech all last evening. 

All Sansa could hope for was that it would be enough. 

Brienne led Sansa through the winding hallways of the castle, before coming to a stop before the staircase. “You first, my Lady,” Brienne told her. “I’ll follow you to the door of the Great Hall, and then hurry to meet you from the side door.” 

“See you soon,” Sansa told her Knight, breathless. She tried to calm herself, and began her descent. 

Each step she took, she felt stronger, more sure of herself. It was as if every experience she’d ever had in her life was leading her here. From her lessons in this very castle, to sneaking into the Great Hall of King’s Landing to see her father hold Court. All those parties with the Tyrells, and Littlefinger whispering in her ear in the Vale. Traveling with Jon to all the holdfasts in the North, seeing what the Lords and Ladies of the North were like when not appealing to her father for aid. To the dark days of the Long Night, hoping for the survival of siblings, while trying to hold this castle together. 

They’d all led her here. 

As she left the staircase, and walked towards the entrance of the Great Hall, Sansa felt calm in a way she hadn’t for weeks. 

There was nothing left to do except walk through the door, and face her future. 

And she did. 

The Hall was packed with people, who all knelt as she passed. Sansa forced herself to keep her head up, to not take her eyes off the freshly carved thrones at the end of the hall. The silence of the hall was almost spiritual, and Sansa felt closer to the Gods than she had in years. 

Her eyes drifted from the thrones, each carved with two direwolves on each side, to her siblings, each sitting to a live direwolf. Arya and Nymeria were next to the throne that would be Sansa’s, her eyes bright. Sansa’s heart clenched, seeing Arya look at her in such a way. They’d come so far, she realized. 

As she got closer, her eyes drifted to Bran as well, who was smiling, Ghost panting next to him. All of it was worth it, Sansa thought, fiercely, looking at her brother. He was still alive, and was happy. She’d take a hundred Ramsays, a thousand Joffreys, a million Wrights, just to see him that happy again. 

Jon was hovering behind the thrones, face solemn. Sansa felt as if time was moving slowly, and forced herself to look only into his eyes as she got closer to the thrones. He was holding the crown that would fit on Sansa’s head. He’d asked if he could crown her, giving her throne that he called “rightfully hers”. She’s tried to protest, but he’d insisted. “Let me give it to you now,” he’d begged. “If I had, all those months ago, maybe this all would have been different.” Sansa couldn’t say she’d want this to happen any differently, but she’d agreed to his insistence. 

As she came to stop in front of the throne, Sansa knelt in front of them both. Bran and Sam had both found old histories telling how the old kings of Winter had been coronated, and Sansa wanted to make it similar, even though no one here would appreciate the similarities. 

Jon walked around the thrones, passing Arya, and Sansa looked up to meet his eyes. 

“With this crown,” Jon began, projecting his voice through the hall. It was the loudest Sansa had ever heard him. “I name you Sansa, first of her name, of House Stark. Queen in the North.” He moved to gently place the crown on her head. It was heavy, Sansa noted, heavier than it had felt while it was just the base, being fitted to her head a few weeks before. 

The metal felt cool against her forehead, and Sansa took a deep breath, before standing. Jon took her hand, and led her to sit on the throne. After she did, he turned to the crowd, and unsheathed Long Claw.

“THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!” He shouted. The people of the North stood as one, and shouted with him. “THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH!” It was just like Jon’s crowning, minus the ceremony Sansa had designed. Being treated the same by these people who had seemed, for so long, to only respect the strength of a sword, felt emancipating, Sansa thought, heart beating fast. 

Sansa tried to control her face, her eyes darting across the hall. She could see the Manderlys, the Mormonts, the Hornwoods, the remaining Cerwyn. All these Lords and Ladies who had doubted them before the Long Winter, now cheering her name. 

There were more friendly faces, like Sam and Gilly, holding the baby. Brienne and Theon, both beaming, Jeyne at their side. Gendry was cheering loudly, probably making Arya go red next to her. 

She could even see Daenerys and her crowd, including the Martells, standing with respect. It was good enough, Sansa thought, content on just their blessing. 

But what really made it hard for her to control her face was Arya and Bran’s voices, shouting closest to her. Sansa could see Arya’s arm extended in the corner of her eye, no doubt waving Needle. Sansa’s heart clenched again. Bran’s voice was deeper, and was ringing just as clearly as Arya’s. 

Those dark months, when she and Arya had been at odds, and Bran had seemed farther from home than ever, seemed to be nothing more than distant history.

There was something, she thought, to be given this responsibility with them by her side. She’d appreciate it even if they weren’t here, but knowing they were, cheering her on, lightened her heart. 

After a few more “THE QUEEN IN THE NORTH” shouts, the Hall grew quiet. Sansa stood, knowing it was her time to speak. She took one deep breath, and began. 

“People of the North, I am honored to accept this crown. I will rule you justly, like my father. I will rule with courage, as my brother did. I will rule you as I have for the last few moons, with love. The North has fought for independence for a long time, and with the honor of being the first ruler of an independent North, acknowledged by other rulers, I will not fail you,” she swore. 

The crowd roared in appreciation, but Sansa was not done. “The North has been ruled by Starks for over a thousand years. I will honor those who have come before me, with traditions that stretch far back before the time of Torrhen Stark. But I will build on them, to make the North a better place to live, for both Northerners and anyone else who chooses to call our land home. I will make a land that accepts people, no matter the circumstances of their birth, or if they are man or woman.” 

Sansa spoke over increased shouts, knowing she could not finish this speech without honoring those who were no longer there. “Tens of thousands of Northmen fell in the Great War defending all of Westeros. And those who survived have seen too much and fought too hard ever to kneel again. The North will remain an independent kingdom, as it was for thousands of years.”  
She paused again, taking a deep breath. She could hear Arya’s cheers amongst the crowd, and that gave her the strength to keep going. “Together, we will make the North prosperous. We will outlast any Winter, and together, we will build towards a bright Spring!” 

At that, the crowd burst into cheers and shouts again, and Sansa smiled. She waited until there was silence, before speaking again. “And I appreciate you all for being here for this ceremony. We still have one more to go.” More cheers erupted. “If you all make your way to the Godswood, the wedding will begin in around one hour.” She motioned with her hands. “You are dismissed.” 

As soon as she gave word, everyone in the hall began to move, rushing to be the first ones out the door. Sansa tried not to laugh at elderly Northern Lords pushing each other to be the first ones out the door. She turned to talk to Arya, but was surprised that she was already gone. 

“She has something to get,” Sansa heard Bran explain. She turned to see her brother smiling up at her. 

“Is this about that sack?” Sansa asked, suspicious.

“It’s good, Sansa, I promise,” Bran insisted. He paused and said softly, “You look beautiful.” 

Sansa felt choked up. She knelt down and hugged him. “Thank you, Bran,” she said, face in his dark red curls. 

“Anytime,” he told her, voice muffled by her dress. “You look like you were meant to be on that throne.” 

Sansa pulled back and looked down at him. “It should have been Robb’s.” 

To her surprise, Bran shook his head. “Robb was meant for war. You, Sansa, are meant to rule in peace.” 

Sansa looked at the throne, thinking of Robb. She’d never known him as a king. She only knew what Theon was willing to share. She liked to think he could have ruled in peace, too. 

“You’re remembering the man who left you here, Bran,” Sansa said, looking back at him. “I’m thinking of the boy I left in Winterfell’s courtyard, snowflakes in his hair.” 

Bran’s face softened. “That’s true. We were all summer children, in the beginning.” 

“I hope our children will be as well,” Sansa said softly. She was tired of war. She wanted a generation of children who didn’t know hardship, or fear.

“I have faith in you,” Bran said, fiercely. But then he had a wicked look in his eye. “But you better hurry to your rooms, so you’re not late for your own wedding!” 

Sansa laughed, the seriousness of the moment fading away. “Yes, I doubt Jon would appreciate that.” She looked around, eyebrows furrowing. “Where did he go?” 

“Sam took him away,” Bran said loosely. 

“Can you make it down to the Godswood?” Sansa asked, still looking for someone to help him. “I have to go get the cloaks.” 

“I can,” Bran said lightly. “Someone made enough paths for me.” 

Sansa laughed, completely forgetting for a moment. “Bran, I forgot-” 

“You forgot your own present for me?” Bran asked, amused. “I’ll be fine.” 

Sansa knelt to kiss his cheek. “Don’t forget, you’re walking me to the tree!” 

“I’m more worried about you forgetting,” he called back to her, and she hurried back up the hall. It was almost empty now, just a few people lingering. Sansa hurried back down the hallways, and up the stairs. She was faintly aware of metal somewhere behind her, telling her Brienne was watching over her, as always. 

By the time she got back to her rooms, she was slightly out of breath, the heat of the dress beginning to get to her. She was surprised to see her door opened slightly, as well. 

“Hello?” She called, pushing it open all the way. There were piles of leaves on the ground, and grunting coming from the room. 

“Sansa!” Arya’s voice shouted, panicked. Sansa walked through the door, and saw Arya further in the room, two piles of flowers in her hands. “Don’t look!” 

“Too late,” Sansa told her, dodging the leaves to stand in front of her. “What are you doing?” 

Her sister sighed. “They were fine before I put them in the sack, I promise!” It was only then that Sansa realized what was in her hands. Two flower crowns, both made of Winter Roses. 

“Are those for me and Jon?” She asked, voice softening. 

Arya nodded, looking a bit upset. “Yes,” she admitted. “I thought it would be a nice touch, you know, because of Aunt Lyanna.” 

“Arya,” Sansa said, love rushing through her. “It is a wonderful idea.” She blinked quickly, trying to keep tears from her eyes. “Let me help you,” she said, moving to sit next to Arya. 

“Your dress!” Arya protested. Sansa ignored her, sitting as gently as she could. Arya sighed. “Now I’m the one warning you about staying clean,” Arya realized, snorting. 

Sansa giggled too, “It’s quite the switch,” she agreed, taking one of the crowns from Arya’s hands. They weren’t ruined, just a bit squashed. “All we need to do is reshape them,” Sansa said, voice light. She could see Arya’s face brightening at her words. 

Together, they sat on the ground, and reshaped them both until they looked more like crowns. “Put mine on,” Sansa said, and Arya stood, and brushed the crown against the metal one. “How do I look?” Sansa asked, not willing to move in her dress quite yet. 

“Perfect,” Arya said, voice soft. “The blue goes perfect with your eyes.” 

Sansa looked up at her. Arya’s face looked wistful. “You’re beautiful, too, Arya,” Sansa told her. “I should have told you more when we were girls.” 

“I don’t care about that!” Arya snapped, but her face grew red. “I just wish I’d made some for Bran and me, that’s all,” she finished, voice growing softer. 

“Do we have time?” Sansa asked. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed. 

“No,” Arya said, shaking her head. “We should probably be there already.” 

“We’ll make you one before you go,” Sansa promised. “Then you can keep it in the South.” 

Arya bit her lip. “I’d like that.” She brushed off the remaining leaves from her dress, and held her hands out to Sansa. “We better get you up before we’re late.” 

Sansa grasped her sister’s hands, and stood, the dress settling against her body. Arya brushed the dirt from the dress, before taking the other crown from her. “I’m going to get this to Jon,” Arya told her. “Will you be alright getting down there?” 

“Yes, yes, go ahead,” Sansa told her. “I just have to get the cloaks.” 

Arya hurried from the room, and Sansa reached into her cabinet and pulled out her old cloak. She draped it over her own shoulders, and then reached back in for her new cloak. It was a deeper grey than her dress, with two direwolves stitched on the back, as tradition. Jon’s was the same, with a stronger base around the shoulders. She piled them into her arms, and after a quick glance in the mirror to look at her two crowns, she hurried from the rooms. 

The hallway was almost empty, as everyone was already down in the Godswood. Brienne was standing guard, as always, and followed her down to the castle yards. But there was another person as well, waiting for her at the gates, as the sun began to set in the distance, painting the castle in reds and yellows. 

“Theon?” Sansa called, surprised to see him. 

He turned to face her, a smile on his face. It was such a drastic difference from his face at her last wedding. 

“You look beautiful, Queen Sansa,” he said, softly. 

Sansa felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “Theon, there’s no need-” 

“You are my Queen, Sansa,” Theon interrupted. He paused for a moment, and added, “Well, at least one of my queens. I’m not sure Asha would like it if I left her out.”

Sansa laughed. She’d still not met Theon’s sister, but all of his stories suggested she was a fierce woman in her own right. “You should not tell her that,” Sansa said, reaching for one of his hands. “She’s the Iron Born one.” 

“I won’t mention it,” Theon promised. His smile faded a bit. “I know I am a poor replacement for Robb, or your father, but I will walk you to Bran, at least.” 

“Theon, you do not need to be a replacement for anyone,” Sansa said fiercely. “All I need is you.” 

Theon’s smile can back, and he offered her his arm. She took it eagerly, and they began to walk.

Brienne passed by quickly, trying not to interrupt. Sansa was surprised to see Nymeria at her heels, following her into the Godswood.

The gate creaked and Sansa stepped through, Theon right behind her. They followed the path, the sound of voices growing louder as they walked through the Godswood. Sansa could feel her heart begin to beat faster, as the weight of the moment really began to sink in. After two prior marriages, one would think she’d be calmer, she thought, faintly. But this was not like her other marriages- political, unwanted. This was all she had ever dreamed of. 

As a girl, she’d dreamt of a dashing prince to win her heart. She’d thought it would be Joffrey, once upon a time. He had destroyed the dream, had left her sure that life was not meant to be happy, after all. 

But Jon had shown her that maybe it was. He’d come back into her life at its lowest point, and now she was dreaming of her future again. One where they ruled the North together, Arya and Bran happy and nearby. All of their friends they’d made over the years- Brienne, Theon, Sam, Gilly, Tormund-would support them both and always be there with a smile. 

And there would be children. Boys with Robb’s curly red hair, Bran’s mischievous smile, Rickon’s laugh. Girls who looked like Arya. 

Sansa couldn’t wait. 

Finally, they reached the back of the crowd, where Bran was waiting. He was smiling. Sansa squeezed Theon’s hand quickly before moving to stand before her brother.

“Let me have those cloaks,” Bran said, reaching for them. Sansa laid them on his lap gently. “Are you ready?” He asked, hands folding on top of the furs. 

“Yes,” Sansa said, quickly. She had never been more ready in her life. 

Bran chuckled, and held out an arm. “We’ll follow you, Sansa.” 

Theon moved behind Bran, and pushed him slowly, to keep pace with Sansa. As they walked, a silence began to grow, as heads turned to look at them. 

The path was lit with candles, and for a moment, Sansa felt as if she was reliving her marriage to Ramsay. But this time, she reminded herself, Bran was next to her. Theon was pushing him. And it was Jon at the end of this path. 

She refocused herself and continued. The crowd was larger, as well, she noted, with people from across Westeros smiling at her as she passed. Sam looked a bit teary, and Arianne Martell smiled as Sansa met her eyes. 

The path she'd had installed for Bran was dry, and there was only a dusting of snow across the tree branches. Sansa could see the formation of little buds on the branches, the very hint of spring beginning to arrive. 

Her eyes finally looked down from the trees as she made a slight turn, and she could see Jon. He was standing before the Weirwood, a hint of snow in his curls, underneath his own crown of blue winter roses. His dark brown eyepatch, stitched with a direwolf, was looking shiny in the candlelight. He'd pulled his curls back, today, Sansa noted. She hadn't realized earlier. His beard was trimmed, and it looked like his lips were wobbling. His cloak that Sansa had presented him back at Castle Black hung over his shoulders, and Ghost was sitting by his side, as large as ever, but looking well-groomed and happy. Sansa's heart clenched. She was almost there.

She didn't take her eyes off him for the rest of the walk, even as she heard sighs and cheers from the front of the crowd as she finally came into view. Bran and Theon guided her in front of Jon, and she reached out to take his hands. He was warm, even underneath the leather, and his eyes didn't leave hers. 

Bran cleared his throat, and silence echoed across the woods. It was time to begin. 

“Who comes before the old gods this night?” Bran asked, voice booming louder than Sansa had expected. 

“Sansa of the House Stark comes here to be wed,” Sansa said, clearly and loudly. She’d decided, weeks ago, that she’d be giving herself away. She was a woman grown, and she would offer herself. It was a nice way to separate this marriage from those that had come before.“A woman grown, trueborn and noble,” she continued. “She comes to beg the blessings of the gods.” 

“Who comes to claim her?” Bran asked, turned a bit to look at Jon. 

“Jon, of House Stark,” Jon said, fiercely. Sansa felt a wave of happiness pass over her. She’d told him to do what felt right, and this felt the most right to her, as well. He’d always been a Stark. Now, it would be official. 

“Heir to the Six Kingdoms,” Jon continued, not as fierce, but just as certain. 

“Who gives her?” Bran asked, looking back at Sansa. 

“She gives herself,” Sansa said, turning back to catch Jon’s eye. “As Queen of the North, and a woman grown, she gives herself.” Jon’s eyes softened at her words, and Sansa almost missed Bran’s next question. 

“Queen Sansa, do you take this man?” Bran asked. 

“I take this man,” Sansa confirmed. 

“Lord Jon, do you take this woman?” Bran asked, turning to look at Jon. 

“Aye, I take this woman,” Jon repeated. 

“Look upon each other, and say the words,” Bran ordered. 

Sansa looked right into Jon’s eye, and began. “I am his and he is mine,” she said, hearing Jon’s words echo her own. “From this day until the end of my days,” they finished. There was cheering from the crowd, no doubt those from the South who follow the Seven eager to recognize a detail. 

“I now present the cloaks,” Bran said, motioning to his lap. Arya appeared from nowhere, and grabbed them both. She handed the larger cloak to Sansa, which she took. Jon took off his older cloak and handed it back to Arya. He turned and Sansa draped the cloak across his shoulders. 

“Turn, and let me do the strap,” Sansa said, softly. Jon listened, and they met each other’s eyes again. “Now you are a Stark for life,” she whispered. At her words, he began to tear up. Sansa stole the tear from his cheek, and Arya cleared her throat. 

They stepped away from each other, and Sansa reached and undid her own cloak. She handed it to Arya as Jon took the other cloak. Sansa turned and let him see her back, and felt the warmth of the fur settle across her own shoulders. “Turn, please,” Jon said softly.

Sansa did, and he reached out and latched her cloak as well. 

Now they were man and wife. 

But not yet Queen and King. 

“Arya, the crown, please,” Sansa asked. Jon, at the cue, took a knee. Arya pulled the crown out from wherever she had it hidden, and Sansa took it in hand. It matched the crown on her own head, silver, with two matching direwolves, representing their union. Jon’s crown was a bit more square than her own, which was matched to the curve of her head. 

“With this crown,” Sansa began, repeating the same words Jon had uttered just a few hours before, “I name you Jon, first of his name, of House Stark. King in the North.” She lowered the crown onto Jon’s head, settling amongst the winter roses and his dark Stark curls. 

“Rise,” Sansa told him, pulling her hands back to her sides. She couldn’t touch him, not yet. 

Jon stood, eyes still lowered. Sansa could see the hint of tears again. Bran cleared his throat behind them both, and announced loudly. “Queen Sansa and King Jon!” 

“Queen Sansa and King Jon!” the crowd roared back. 

“You may kiss the Queen,” Bran said, softer, as the crowd continued to chant. Jon didn’t take a moment to think of it, and reached out for Sansa, who was just as eager. His hands slid through the furs on her cloak and rested at the base of her neck, Sansa curled her own fingers in his curls, and met his mouth eagerly. They’d kissed dozens of times now, but each time felt like a new experience, setting her mouth and heart afire. 

Jon’s lips nudged her lips apart, and he deepened the kiss, as if they were not in front of hundreds of people. But Sansa let him. This was to be his only wedding. He might as well enjoy it, she thought mischievously. 

Eventually, the lack of air forced them to separate. Sansa had no way to tell how much time had passed, as the crowd was still chanting their names, and Arya and Bran still stood at their sides. Arya didn’t look disgusted, but instead, almost fond, which meant the infinity might have only existed inside Sansa’s head. 

Ghost moved over to nudge their hands, and Sansa laughed and buried both of hers in his fur. “He’s jealous,” Jon muttered, still flushed from the kiss. 

Sansa laughed, feeling almost light headed. “I can kiss you, too,” she told the direwolf, leaning over to lay a kiss between his eyes. Ghost huffed loudly in response, setting Sansa’s laughter off again. 

The crowd finally quieted down, and Sansa forced herself to turn and look at them. She raised her voice again, hoping it would carry. “We thank you all for being here. If you all want to return to the Great Hall, a feast has begun to be served. There will be wine, meat, and dancing. We hope you all enjoy yourselves the rest of the evening.” 

Another cheer was heard across the Weirwood, and the guests began filling out. Sansa turned back to Jon, who was straightening his two crowns. Arya had come up behind him, and was trying to help him. 

“Too many crowns?” Arya asked, as Sansa stepped closer to hear her over the bustle of the crowd. 

“No, no, I love them both,” Jon told her, looking at her warmly. “Gendry’s should probably be on the bottom, just so it doesn’t ruin the roses.” 

“Fair enough,” Arya replied, red coloring her cheeks. 

“Should we start going over?” Sansa asked, pulling their attention towards her. 

“You two should wait,” Arya said, firmly. “Otherwise there’ll be a rush to let you two get there first.” 

“Oh, you’re right,” Sansa realized. She had spent all this time planning the content of the coronation and the wedding, and very little considering the people involved. 

“It’ll be quick,” Bran said from behind her. Sansa turned to let him join their discussion. “It seems as if everyone’s well on their way.”

Glancing up, Sansa saw he was right. Nearly the entire crowd was already back at the turn, hurrying inside the escape the chill. The sun had begun setting already, as winter had not passed completely, and all the Southerners were no doubt eager to be in the warmth of the firelit hall again. 

The only people still in the crowd were their closest friends. Brienne had come back towards them, close enough to seem intimidating, but not wanting to overhear their conversation. Nymeria was still ghosting her, dogging in her footsteps. Arya’s wolf had very rarely stayed long in the castle, preferring to spend her time with her pack. That she was here at all warmed Sansa’s heart. Meera and her father were talking to Gendry, who had trimmed his hair for the occasion, and Sam and Gilly were walking Little Sam up the aisle towards them slowly, letting him stretch his legs. 

“Congratulations!” Sam called, as his little family came to stop before them. He was carrying Jon’s cane, Sansa realized. He handed it over to Jon, and looked up at Sansa. “The ceremony was beautiful, Sansa,” he told her. “I loved the way you combined the ceremonies.” 

Sansa smiled back at him. “Thank you, Sam. It felt important to have them both.” 

“It was far more official than anything I’ve ever seen,” Gilly told her, eyes wide. “All wildlings do is steal each other!” 

“Well, maybe two could consider something a bit more official,” Bran suggested, sounding mischievous. “If that would be something you’d like, Gilly.” 

“Bran!” Sam said, distressed. “I don’t need any help, thank you very much.” 

Gilly laughed, and looked at him fondly. “Don’t worry Sam. I’m perfectly happy with what we have.” 

Sam’s nerves faded from his face, and he looked at Gilly with love in his eyes. “And I’m so happy you are,” he told her softly. 

Arya cleared her throat, clearly feeling uncomfortable at the intimate moment. Sam and Gilly looked away from each other, both a bit red. 

“Shall we head back?” Jon asked, trying to clear the air. 

“Yes,” Sansa said quickly. “The path is nearly clear now.” 

They all began the slow journey back towards the castle, following behind Little Sam, who insisted on walking, and Bran, still gently navigating the new path. Meera and her father joined him, and Gendry and Brienne walked side by side with Arya, leaving Sansa and Jon, leaning heavily on his cane, with Ghost at their heels, at the back. 

“This was perfect,” Jon told her, softly. “Thank you for putting so much work into it.” 

Sansa tried not to turn as red as Sam had just been. “I’m happy you liked it,” she told him, meeting his eyes. “I’ve had a few weddings now, and I’m happy I got to finally have one just the way I wanted it.” 

“Hopefully this will be your last,” Jon commented, sounding nearly as mischievous as Bran had. 

Sansa smiled. “Yes, I hope as well,” she said, turning the moment tender. Jon’s eyes softened, and he lowered his voice. 

“I cannot wait for tonight, Sansa,” he told her, voice rich. 

“Me neither,” Sansa admitted. After Ramsay, she had thought she would never want to lie with a man again. But as she looked at Jon, snow in his curls, eyes dark and intent, she found herself wanting this feast to go as quickly as possible, desire rising in her belly. 

By the time they entered the hall, most of their guests were deep into their cups already, trays of meat and cheeses being passed around. Sansa and Jon were congratulated by over half their guests before they finally got to the table before the fire. 

They had only just sat down when they were approached by Tormund and a few of his Free Folk friends. “Congratulations, Snow!” Tormund roared. He seemed drunker than usual, Sansa noted, reaching for her own cup. 

“You Southerners have a few too many ceremonies for my liking, but I’m happy you finally got your woman,” Tormund told Jon, quieting down slightly. 

“Thank you, Tormund,” Jon replied, sounding a bit pained. 

Tormund turned to Sansa then, to her surprise. “You’re lucky, you know,” Tormund told her, voice rising again. Sansa opened her mouth to respond, assuming he was talking about Jon. 

“Kissed by fire, just like me,” he told her, joyfully laughing. Sansa smiled back at him looking at his flame colored hair. It was brighter than even hers. 

“And you got this little crow, too, I suppose,” he added, causing his friends to laugh loudly. Arya, next to Sansa, snorted as well. 

Sansa chuckled as well, before reaching for Jon’s hand, lying on the table. “I feel lucky for that, as well,” Sansa told Tormund, happy he was treating her as he always did, as simply one of his friends, instead as some Southern Queen. 

Tormund roared again. “And I feel lucky for this ale!” he shouted, taking another deep drink. “To these Southerners, and all the ale they gift us!” The Free Folk cheered with him, and Jon squeezed Sansa’s hand as they moved away. 

“I was worried, a bit, when you met them,” Jon told her, voice near her ear. “I worried you’d think them too rough, too dishonorable.” 

Sansa shook her head. “No, they are nothing like the knights of our childhood.” She thought back to Ser Meryn, and all the others. “They are much better, beards and all.” 

They were next greeted by Edmure Tully, who had dragged along Robert Arryn as well. Sansa smiled at her cousin. Little Sweetrobin was all grown up now, taller than their uncle, all his baby fat gone. They both bowed deeply to the table. 

“We’re here to give you both our best wishes,” Edmure said, standing up straight again. 

Sansa nodded her thanks. “Thank you both for making the journey North,” she said, warmly. “How’s the baby?” she asked her uncle. She knew his wife had finally given birth, and it had been part of the reason he’d headed South so quickly. 

“Both are very well, thank you, Sansa,” he said, warmly. “We’ve named him Brynden, after the Blackfish,” he told them looking proud.” 

“I hope one day you’ll bring both him and your wife to Winterfell,” Sansa said, thinking of one day having children who could play with their cousin. “It will be much more lovely in the summer.” 

“We promise,” Jon added, to laughter across the table. 

“And you are welcome, too, Sweetrobin,” Sansa added, glancing at her cousin. 

“Thank you, Sansa,” he muttered, looking red. He hadn’t grown out all of his awkwardness, Sansa noted, smiling inside. 

“Yeah, Robin,” Arya said brightly. “We could get you on a horse, take you up towards the Wall, while it’s still in one piece!” 

He brightened up at this. “I’ve always wanted to see it,” he said longingly. 

“It’s worth it,” Bran added, from his place next to Jon. “It’s the most incredible sight.” 

“As long as you don’t have to live on it,” Jon added, darkly. 

Sansa and Arya laughed at his tone, and even he began to smile. 

“We will both leave in the morn, Sansa,” Edmure told her as the laughter died down. “I must get back to Roslin and the babe, and we have a few others coming along, as well.” 

“Who?” Jon asked, curious. 

“A few remaining Tully soldiers, and oddly enough, the Hound,” Edmure replied, looking surprised at the words coming from his mouth. 

“The Hound?” Arya asked. Sansa looked to see her eyes wide.

“Aye,” Edmure affirmed. “He told me he saw some dark things in the Riverlands, and he wants to help set some of them right.” 

Sansa looked for the Hound in the crowd, and saw him leaning against one of the walls, observing the scene. She hadn’t spoken to him since he’d arrived, and she didn’t intend to change that. There was too much darkness in their past. But she was happy for him, she realized. He seemed to have finally learned the lesson she’d tried to teach him, that helping others would always be better than lashing out. 

It was proof that even someone like him could change. 

Sansa’s mind was still far in the past when someone cleared their throat. She forced herself to focus, and saw her cousin and uncle had been replaced by Theon, looking a bit shy and unsure of himself. 

“Congratulations, my Queen,” he told her, bowing again. Sansa smiled, their conversation from just hours ago replaying in her mind. “And you as well, Jon,” Theon said, lips twisting up as he returned to his full height. 

Jon snorted, but let it pass. “Thank you, Theon,” he said, sounding softer than Sansa expected. 

“I know now is not the time,” Theon began. Sansa put her full attention on him, realizing he was pulling on his fingers, looking nervous. “But I wanted to ask you both, while you’re here.” 

“What is it, Theon?” Sansa asked, gently. 

“I want to stay in Winterfell,” he said, quickly. “If you’ll have me.”

Sansa felt her eyebrows raise. Had he been expecting them to kick him out?

“Theon, you’re welcome here anytime,” she told him, firmly. But she was a bit surprised at Jon’s next words.

“We would never make you leave.” Sansa turned to see Jon’s face had gone hard. “This is your home, just as surely it is ours.” Ours. She realized what angle Jon was coming from. He, who had always struggled to feel at home in Winterfell, would never make Theon leave a place he called home. 

Theon looked relieved, in a way that had Sansa’s head racing, wondering who had told him he had to leave. It was a mystery for another time, she thought darkly, forcing her thoughts to stay in the moment. 

“You can stay forever, or you can come and go. You will always have a place at our table,” Sansa told him, reaching out for his hand. Theon intertwined his fingers with hers, and smiled back at her. 

“I’ve been writing to Asha,” Theon admitted. Sansa mentally realized that letter had to be where this came from. “I might go home, to see how she’s settling in, but I want to come back. I’ve been worried you would want me to leave, wanting a fresh start.” 

“You are a part of our childhood, Theon,” Jon said, still firm. “And you can be a part of what is to come, as well.” 

Theon reached out and took Jon’s hand as well. “I appreciate you both,” he said, a bit choked up. “I will try not to let you down.” 

Sansa squeezed his hand one last time before he pulled away, and was lost amongst the crowd. 

“What really brought that on?” Jon asked her quietly, close to her ear. 

“I think it was Asha,” Sansa said softly, not wanting anyone to overhear. “He still feels like he has to choose, I think. Greyjoy or Stark.” 

“Well, we’ll have to work that,” Jon said, firmly. 

Sansa met his eye, and felt as if her choice was validated all over again.

Someone cleared their throat and Sansa pulled away from Jon and saw, of all people, Varys standing there. He looked incredibly smug. 

“Lord Varys,” Sansa said, nodding at him. What could he possibly want now? 

“I just come to pass on my regards,” he said, smoothly. “I am happy everything worked out for all parties.” 

“I’m sure you are,” Arya muttered, not soft enough to be unheard. 

Varys acted like he hadn’t, however. “We are due to depart in the morning, down to White Harbour and onward to King’s Landing. We hope Lady Arya would be willing to grace us with her presence at the Queen’s coronation ceremony, just as a representative of the family.”

Of course, Varys knew Arya was going South with Gendry. “She’d love to attend,” Sansa said quickly, before Arya could interject. 

Varys’ eyes lit up. “Excellent. Daenerys had wanted you and Jon, of course, but with the new marriage, I told her travel might be unlikely, especially if there could be a babe on the way.” 

Sansa felt a blush cross her cheeks. She knew more than anyone that was likely, but she had never enjoyed the more intimate part of her life discussed as if it was nothing more than a political inconvenience. “And we’re very thankful for your consideration,” Jon interposed, after Sansa was quiet for a second too long. 

Varys bowed again. “Good luck to you both, both in the marriage and the Kingdom. Daenerys will help in any way asked.” 

He backed away, finally, and Sansa’s eyes followed him as he went back to Daenerys’ table. The little queen was surrounded by her normal companions. Lord Jorah was by her side, deep in conversation with his two cousins, Lyanna standing and animatedly telling a tale. Grey Worm and Missandei were talking quietly on her other side. The queen almost looked lonely, Sansa thought, inspecting her face. Her eyes were staring off into the distance, a little frown on her face. 

Before Sansa could even wonder what was going on, Daenerys stood suddenly, before Varys had reached the table and hurried out of the hall. Sansa opened her mouth, and turned to say something to Jon, but Davos and Gendry had arrived at the table, and Jon was talking eagerly to his friend and former hand. Davos hadn’t even told them his plans, Sansa thought absentmindedly. She turned to her right, to tell Arya what she had seen, but to her surprise, Gendry was leading her towards the dance floor, even as she argued the entire way. The music must have begun, Sansa realized. The crowd was so loud, it was hard to hear. Sansa shut her mouth. Maybe this was something for her to solve, she thought. 

She stood quietly. It was a mark of the noise of the hall that no one noticed her. She slipped out behind Jon, but before she could walk towards the door, she felt a hand on hers. 

Sansa turned to see Bran holding her wrist. “Go to her,” Bran said, loudly, trying to be heard. Sansa nodded. She knew her brother didn’t know the future, not anymore, but he had a keen sense of intuition. She would trust him. 

She slipped from the hall, which was full of people as well, laughing and turning tales. The heat of the hall was almost burning under all of her layers, so Sansa headed for the castle yards, hoping Daenerys had the same thought. 

The first step outside was cool on her face. Sansa took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling a bit relieved at the quiet. She could just barely hear the laughter from the hall as she shut the door behind her. 

The sky was clear above her, and Sansa could see the stars shining down. She smiled, enjoying the cold air, before she heard a sob. 

Sansa’s smile dropped, and she turned her head and could see Daenerys, slumped on the ground in the muddy yards. The moonlight was shining off of her hair, which was pulled back into a series of braids and hanging down her back. 

“Daenerys?” Sansa called, panicked. Had something attacked her? 

All she got was another sob in reply. Sansa lifted her skirts and hurried across the yards. There was still a bit of icy slush, turning to mud in most places across the yards. But that deep dip, the icy patch she’d slipped on during the worst night of her life was still there. And it seemed, Sansa realized, that Daenerys had slipped on it as well. 

Sansa knelt down, eyes catching Daenerys’. Her eyes were red, and her leg was pulled up under her arm. She was cradling her knee. “Are you alright?” Sansa asked, relieved she was in one piece. 

Daenerys nodded, and reached out with her other arm and rubbed at her face. 

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said, trying to seem composed. “I needed some air, that’s all.” 

“And your leg?” Sansa asked, gently. 

Daenerys took a deep huff. “There’s somehow,” she began, sounding more like herself, “ice, still, in this place. I assumed the warm weather would melt it all, but there always seems to be more winter, even where you least expect it.” 

“Winter endures, that way,” Sansa said, trying to follow where she was going. 

“Not even the warmth of the sun can last forever, but this icy bit remains,” Daenerys continued, bitterness slipping out. 

Sansa could see where this was going. She was unsure if Daenerys could, yet. “If it makes you feel better, I slipped on this very patch, during the Last Battle,” Sansa told her, trying to bridge this divide between them. They were to be family, of a sort. She didn’t want this distance to feel impossible. 

“You did?” Daenerys asked, surprised. 

Sansa nodded. “Aye, there’s where I was saved by my brother.” 

“The dead one,” Daenerys recalled. “Robb?” 

“Yes,” Sansa confirmed. She couldn’t find in it her to tell Daenerys she had two dead brothers. “He saved me, he and Ghost. But I was the one who stood up again, who kept going.” 

“Saved by your dead brother and Jon’s magic wolf,” Daenerys mused. She went quiet for a moment, and finally got to where Sansa had seen her leading them. “And I have no one. No Targaryens, no dragons.” 

Sansa took a deep breath. There was a girl, somewhere deep inside her, who wanted to shout. A girl who had seen her father’s head cut off, who cried when Lady was taken from her. Who was married against her will, twice, who looked at Rickon’s broken body. Daenerys had everything she wanted, nearly handed to her on a golden platter. Yet she was still complaining about the death of her dragons, that Jon had rejected her. That the winter endured, even when the fire from the sun could not. 

Sansa was not that girl anymore, not completely. She was a woman grown, made up of the all the girls she had been, all of them inside her. She reached for the girl she’d been at Winterfell, gentle and kind. It was her she needed right now. Her, and the wolf she’d had by her side. 

“I had a direwolf, too, you know,” Sansa said, almost nonchalantly. Daenerys turned to her then, surprise in her eyes. “I named her Lady, after the thing I wanted to be most in the entire world. She was kind, and beautiful, and fiercer than anyone could know.” She thought back to Lady, protecting her at the Crossroads, before everything went so wrong. “And she died, because Cersei demanded vengeance in the place of justice.” 

“How did you continue on without her?” Daenerys asked. Someone must have told her that their wolves were more than just pets, Sansa thought. 

“It hurt,” Sansa admitted. “Especially when my father was killed, and Arya disappeared. I was a wolf in the lair of the lions, and it was hard for anyone to see me as a wolf, when I seemed so tame and alone.” 

She felt her eyes grow firm. “But I know I carry her with me,” she told Daenerys. “She was a part of me, just as your dragons were a part of you. You must take their best parts, and make them part of you.” She wasn’t even speaking just of Lady, Sansa realized. Her father’s quiet kindness, her mother’s blazing knowledge. Robb’s boldness, Rickon’s spirit. Lady’s fierceness. 

She carried them all. 

Daenerys looked calmer. “I can do that,” she told Sansa, tears clearing up. “I can be crafty like Viserion, clever like Rhaegal. Strong like Drogon.”

Daenerys carried all these hurts, Sansa thought. Had anyone ever taught her how to grieve before? Or had she continued on and on, until she was a shell of a girl, leaving nothing but ashes behind her? 

“Westeros would be better for it,” Sansa said, finally. She was still unsure about the woman sitting before her, still not sure if she could rule the way the other kingdoms needed. But now, she could see the girl Daenerys used to be as well. 

All Sansa could hope was that she could be guided by who she used to be, just as Sansa was. 

“Can you stand?” Sansa asked, reaching for Dany’s hands. The smaller woman nodded, and took them. 

“I believe so,” Dany said. She braced herself against the ground, and Sansa slowly helped her stand, keeping her steady on the ice. Dany put weight on her leg slowly, but her face remained strong. 

The little dragon queen had been dressed in her white furs, as normal. These ones were grey along the ends. But it had seemed as if the remaining snow from the icy path had gotten on her clothes, making her look paler from head to toe. She looked like an icy flower, cheeks red still from her tears. But she looked fierce again, as Sansa had used to seeing her. But it was the person underneath the facade, one Sansa had not seemed before, who was new. Sansa hoped this change would last.

“Good,” Sansa said, breaking the silence. “Now, shall we return to the party?”

“Yes, we shall,” Dany said, lightly. She smiled up at Sansa, looking much happier. “Thank you, Sansa,” she said, softly. “You always know just what to say.” 

Sansa didn’t want to admit it came from years of terror at court, so she just smiled. Proving Dany’s point, a voice that sounded like Arya whispered in the back of her mind. 

They walked together back to the Great Hall, and Sansa nodded at the other queen one last time before heading back to her table. Dany looked happier, Sansa thought, watching her beam at Arianne, sitting amongst the other Martells, and began to talk eagerly to Missandei, who smiled back at her.

Sansa stopped for a moment, taking in the scene before her. She could see Brienne, sitting with Tormund, and a few of the others, joy across her face. Theon was sitting with Jeyne, quietly talking, the rest of the world far from them. Arya was still dancing with Gendry, and Sansa could hear her laughter from down the hall. Bran was still sitting by the fire, surrounded by Ghost and Nymeria, talking to Davos and Meera, eyes full of mirth. 

Sansa began to walk towards them, seeing desserts passed out across the main table. It was time for her to have her precious lemon cakes. Before she could even get close enough for a smell, a hand reached out and took hers. She turned to see Jon, heavy furs off. 

“Can I have this dance?” he asked, seriously. At his words, Sansa could finally hear the music. There was a fiddle, and a lute, and a man singing a tune she’d never heard before. Sansa almost laughed in response. Jon didn’t dance. 

“You don’t dance,” she told him, sounding aghast. 

“For you, I do,” Jon told her, face serious. He was standing up, his cane left behind at the table. 

Sansa felt her heart leap, and her mouth opened. Jon’s hands left hers, and he reached to unlace her furs in front of her chest. Sansa’s pulse increased, feeling his hands so close to her skin. His heat pulled back quickly, and he handed her furs to a passing Sam, who hefted under their weight. 

“My Lady?’ Jon asked, hand out again. 

Sansa took it, eagerly. She’d keep taking it, for the rest of her life. 

Jon pulled her close, and the crowd around them became nothing more than background noise. Sansa let herself nuzzle close to Jon, arms around him, and felt completely and totally at home. 

Everything had fallen into place, she thought. She was in the arms of a man who loved her right, and had her friends and family around her. The North was free, and Westeros was finally at peace. 

All that left was for them to walk into the spring, and make all their dreams come true. 

Sansa couldn’t wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE DID IT FOLKS! It took way, way, longer than planned (life does that, I suppose) but we're here! With a complete fic, and a married couple, and a free North. 
> 
> Jon and Sansa deserved nothing less, after all. 
> 
> There is so much in this story that grew out of the lovely comments you all left for me, and I wanted to thank you all for coming along on this journey. What started as a little Jonsa idea quickly morphed into a story focused on more than just the two of them, of Arya and Bran, of Brienne and Daenerys. As you all realized while reading, there were so many plot threads to finish that this little epilogue quickly got out of hand. 
> 
> This story was written not just in disappointment of season eight, but in love, for these characters who I fell in love with. I wanted them all to have endings that they deserved, endings that satisfied their arcs, while hinting at what was to come next. I could have kept going with them all here, but you'll have to tune into the sequel to see what's coming next ;).


End file.
